


Gatito

by maivalkov



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action & Romance, Age of Discovery AU, Eventual Smut, Human & Country Names Used, M/M, Pirates, Religion, Witchcraft, a time before everything goes to hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 57,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maivalkov/pseuds/maivalkov
Summary: Gentleman in the court, and scoundrel at the port, Arthur spends his time raiding ships in the name of his Queen.It's easy money and a laugh, he says, until the storms sweep in a prize much grander, and complex, than that of gold and jewels.





	1. Gold

 With every crack and boom that shook the sky, Arthur’s smile grew. The storm raging through the channel that night was relentless, cruel, and worsening by the hour.

Wise captains knew to drop anchor at the nearest port, whilst reckless ones chanced the mercy of the sea. Without prejudice she hurled them over her waves, and into the jagged rocks, where they crashed and splintered like kegs. Any survivors would hit the shore by morning, and all others presumed to be lost, drifting amongst the creatures of the deep.

“Captain, this has gone on long enough. Isn’t there _something_ you could do?”

Arthur stared down his nose, to the shivering bundle by his side. Beneath the hefty wax cloak was a human boy with dirty blond hair, and eyes too bright given the state of the world. “Peter, you know that’s not possible.”  

Peter stood firm, as usual. “I wouldn’t tell.”

"Someone else might.” Arthur explained, motioning to a handful of sailors on the docks. One by one they charged across the planks, wet to their bones from the rain, and fought to tie down a ship as it came into port. “I’m afraid my powers might cause more harm than good in this day and age.”

“But all you need to do is calm the sea!” Peter exclaimed, forever hopeful. “You could try over there, behind that cliff. No one would ever know!”

"The sea would know, and I daren’t mess with her.” Arthur quirked a smile, and tipped his hat further down his head.

For all of his strange ideas, Peter was a genuinely decent lad. One of many strays Arthur had plucked from the streets over the years. He was the type who had been born with nothing, and therefore cherished everything.

If Fate had been kinder, she would have made Arthur human as well. That way Peter could be his brother, instead of that damned Scotsman to the north, but such was life. Fate was bitter, Fate was scorned, and Fate was determined to make Arthur pay, whether he had sinned or not.

“I suppose we'd best wait for the storm to end, right?” Peter asked, scanning the docks all the while. Never before had he seen so many merchant ships, so many colourful sails and banners. To him it was a sign of progress, and unity.

To Arthur, it was a feast. An opportunity. 

“Captain…?”

Peter recognised the glow in Arthur's eyes. A deep, burning ambition that set itself upon the furthest boats, and the sailors who gathered there. Almost immediately those men turned and waved, revealing a crowd of familiar faces, in not-so-familiar clothes.

Peter knew those men.

“You’ve already started the raid… haven’t you?” He droned, returning the wave. The sailors were definitely a part of Arthur’s crew - _his_ crew- in disguise, and the crates by their sides were undoubtedly stolen goods.

“We have a right to inspect every ship that enters the port. It’s for the safety of our Queen, and the stability of our land.” Arthur reasoned.

“You look fine to me.”

“Then my plan is working.” Arthur laughed, and slapped a hand to Peter’s back.

 

* * *

 

 Once reunited with the crew, the mood improved tenfold. Half of Arthur’s men went about hiding their spoils, whilst others lurked about the bigger vessels, sizing them up.

 Whatever way one looked at it, the larger ships were intimidating. But that was the point. They were the epitome of strength and pride that churned Arthur’s stomach, made him giddy and sick all at once.

 “Captain!” Called one of his men, hurrying back to the group. “I dunno’ if it’s the storm or our faces scarin’ them stiff, but so far none of the merchants have fought back.”

“They didn’t get the chance.” Another laughed. “One look at a sharp blade was good to keep ‘em quiet!”

“And let’s keep it that way.” Arthur pressed. “We’re not here for blood. The sea is claiming her share of that tonight.”

“ _Aye!”_ The group boomed in unison.

 

 Arthur rewarded their loyalty with a smile, and lifted his gaze. Up above, on the deck of the nearest ship Arthur saw a handful of his men pacing back and forth, their heads barely visible over the side rails. Their inspection was taking longer than necessary, but when a man dropped down via a rope to deliver the news, his heart and his hopes rose high, like the great waves out at sea. 

“It’s Spanish, Captain. We found their flags hidden in the barrels on deck.”

The fire in Arthur’s eyes returned. He checked his pistols, left then right, and marched towards the ship. "With me, all of you!” 

“Captain?!”

 Arthur’s hands scrambled for the rope in the winds. His feet kicked for purchase against the side of the boat, and by the time lighting illuminated the sea he was aboard. Ready. _Alive_. For no ship was better than a Spanish one, when it came to the grander loot.

 

* * *

 

 Though it pained him to do so, Arthur praised the Spanish and their cunning minds. Stripped of all its colours the ship truly resembled one of his own, but below deck the comparisons ended fast.

Where his own men were driven, ready to stand their ground, the Spaniards were docile, wholly engaged in their feast. They gave their rain battered invaders odd stares, but said nothing as they continued to eat.

“Not a real man among them.” One of Arthur's men scoffed close to his ear. “Think they were trying to lay low for the night?”

“Well I would too, if I were forced to moor in an enemy port.” Arthur snorted, and wandered alongside the longer dining tables. Some men clutched rosary beads to their chests, and others muttered a prayer beneath their breath. One particularly brave soul managed to make eye contact, before looking cautiously to the downward stairs, then back again.

It was a fleeting, foolish glance, but enough for Arthur to catch on, and gesture to his crew. 

“Down we go.”

 

* * *

 

 Luck certainly favoured the English that night. On the next floor down a wealth of treasure awaited, ready for the taking.

Clothing. Jewels. Food. Anything and everything within the bowels of the ship had some value. Even the smaller trinkets could be used, whether they be traded on, or taken to their base to decorate the walls.

 “Captain, this is incredible.” Peter gawked, clutching the fabric of his cloak. He had no urge for gold or fancy gems, but he appreciated their glow, and the way they improved Arthur’s mood. 

“Indeed. This is your first time aboard a Spanish ship, isn’t it?” Arthur beamed, ruffling Peter’s soggy hair. “It’s a real treat this lot. Easy pickings.”

“And what of those doors?” Peter asked, pointing to the far right wall.

“The what?” Arthur turned his head, then stilled. He blamed his greed for not noticing sooner.

 

 Across the room sat a mighty pair of doors, held shut with a wooden bar. Iron nails were jammed into either side of the doorframe, and across them looped a multitude of chains, coiled around one another like snakes. In the centre of it all hung a hefty lock, the key of which sat conveniently upon a small table, begging to be used.

“Beyond those…” Arthur breathed, taking in the moment. “We shall find something even greater.”

“Greater than all of this?” Peter could not grasp his logic. The contents of the current room alone would see their crew through the year, and maybe even the next. “But Captain, why don’t we take a cut of this and go-”

_“Gently on the chains!”_

Peter resigned himself with a sigh. Arthur was an honourable man at the best of times, but when exposed to the promise of riches nothing could bring him to his senses. Within seconds he had several men tackling the doors, without so much as a thought for what could lay behind.

Given the eerie state of the Spanish crew, Peter figured it would not hurt to be cautious, but whatever cares Arthur possessed were tossed to the winds.

And the doors followed suit. The men -Arthur included- erupted into a momentary cheer, before inhaling fast at the view. The colour seemed to fade from Arthur’s cheeks then, his eyes dulled to their usual, muted green, and all manner of dread stirred up in his belly.

 

 Beyond the doors lay sculptures of angels, cherubs and saints. Though their expressions implied a notion of peace, their shadows stretched like spectres high upon the walls, lurching over the grand, gold altar in the centre. At its feet they saw a great length of crimson fabric, and from beneath it came a pair of boots, and a tanned, outstretched hand. A head of thick dark curls surfaced from the other end, obscuring the face as it spread out like a fan.

“Are they gone, y’think?” One man asked, carefully approaching the figure.

 “I doubt it.” Arthur replied, cleared his throat, and quickly turned from the scene as if bored. “This lot care about their dead.”

The sailor laughed and got down on his knees for a closer inspection. He ran a hand over the cloak as if it were a pet, then brushed some hair aside. Upon doing so his expression changed, twisted to one of dark, animalistic intrigue, before his lips split into a grin. 

“Got ourselves a nice little maid ‘ere. Alive too, I reckon.” 

“A maid?” Another exclaimed, then looked to his peers. They grumbled to one another in the same, dull tone, but Arthur knew precisely what they had in mind.

“We should check if she’s well.” Peter said to the crew’s displeasure. Most of them sighed and joked of his innocence, whilst the one inspecting the body grabbed his wrist, and brought him before the unfortunate maid.

“C’mere.” He snarled, and held Peter there by his wrist. “S’not everyday you gets them like this. Take a long, hard look, before we gets our hands on the rest of 'er.”

Peter knitted his brows in disapproval, but did as he was told. He started at the jawline -sharp, but pretty- to a soft pair of lips, and lashes unlike those of the weary maids in town. Her hair and skin looked pleasant to touch, and in her ear sat a single piercing made of gold, set with a pretty green stone. 

It was a pleasant sight indeed, but something irked him all the same. 

“That’s not a maid.”

The man laughed. "You what, lad?"

“That’s a pretty sight, but most certainly a man.” Peter stated. He stared a little longer just in case, but his opinion stuck firm. Their audience mumbled to one another in the meantime, whilst Arthur pricked up his ear, and smiled with his back safely turned. 

Peter always did have sharper eyes. 

“Man or maid, it doesn’t matter. He’ll serve us for what we need.” The sailor grunted. 

“This cloak is incredibly fine.” Peter continued, ignoring that crude comment. “And none of the men above had such clothes. Perhaps it’s the Captain?”

“You’re overstepping your mark now, kid.” 

“But it’s a possibility.” 

“You always were a weird one-” 

 _“_ I think you’ll find Peter’s right _.”_ Arthur cut in, putting an end to their nonsense. He silenced the gossiping crew with a click of his fingers, and gestured for Peter to move aside as he entered the little room. “All things considered... the hidden flags, the suspicious lot upstairs, this bloke being locked up… I reckon we’ve stumbled upon a mutiny.”

“A mutiny?!” Several voices echoed at once.

“A mutiny.” Arthur repeated, smirking once more. He squatted down to get a good look of his own, to at least mock the unfortunate bastard, but when he caught of glimpse of his face he recoiled, and drew a lengthy breath. 

  _Antonio._

 “Captain?” Peter murmured, his voice laden with concern. “Is that someone you know?” 

Arthur’s tongue said nothing, but his eyes said it all. He brushed a hand to the Spaniard’s cheek, somewhat cold to the touch, and dived in close to listen to his breaths. Over the sounds of his nosy crew he heard it, thank goodness, but it did little to shake his unease.

 It had been years since he last met Antonio. The late Queen Mary's funeral, to be precise. Their conversations on the day were kept courteous, and brief, but the moment Elizabeth took the throne Antonio departed, and all letters between the two men ceased.

Arthur lamented that latter detail, but he would never confess it aloud. Antonio was frustratingly cheerful, educated, and _good_. He had a strong heart, a strong mind, and a knack for commanding respect. The man could charm an entire court dressed in only a fish net if he so desired, and yet for all his power he remained simple, and pure. A light Arthur envied, and craved, all at once. 

“I know him alright.” Arthur answered in time. He turned his attention to the doors, namely the chains and the wooden bar set about the floor, and swallowed hard. “But why the hell was he locked in here?"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!
> 
> (For those interested, the Peter mentioned in the story isn't Sealand. I wanted Arthur to have one significant crew member, and thought it'd be nice to give him a young assistant, who may or may not have been the namesake of his future little brother & micronation.)


	2. Silver

Arthur should have known there was a catch. Nothing about the ship or its contents smelt right, and upon hearing the heavy clop of boots he sighed, resigning himself to further, unwanted surprises.

“Let them through.” Arthur commanded, and rose to his feet. He readied himself for the pistol or the blade, a hasty show of bravery, but instead the crowd parted to reveal a Spaniard with fine, clean clothes, and an arrogance to his walk. The First mate, Arthur grimaced.

 

True to that theory the man held his nose high, barely acknowledging the crew, but when his eyes met Arthur’s he came to a stop, and his lips pulled into a thin tight line.

“You should not be here.”

“We gots every right to be here!” Called one of Arthur's men. His efforts were met with a rabble of cheers, until the First mate turned on his heel, and shot them a wavering glare.

“It is not _you_ who I refer to!” He spat, and quickly looked back to Arthur. Through fear or rage his hands began to shake, and he fumbled for the hilt of his blade. “I speak to you, _Inglaterra_.”

Arthur cursed his luck, and his eyebrows. The damn things which caught the man’s attention above all else. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Señor...?"

"I do not owe you a name."

"Firstus Mateus it is then." Arthur joked. "But I'll call you First, for short."

First did not indulge Arthur's humour, but then very few did beyond the British shores. "Does your Queen know you are here, attacking grounded ships?"

“Grounded?” Arthur gasped, feigning horror. "Good sir I think you'll find your ship is very much in water. As for the attacking part-"

"We do not have time for games." First snarled. "This storm occurred at such an inconvenient time-"

"Depends which way you look at it."

"Did your Queen send you, or not?" First's voice rose in volume, and he gripped his blade until his knuckles turned white. Arthur supposed that was the moment to show fear, or remorse, but instead he simply smiled.

"She did not. But now, a question for you." Arthur began, gesturing to Antonio's less-than-lively form. "Does your King know of this?" 

 First's features twitched, but he did not crack. Not yet. "He knows what must be done."

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It is the truth.”

"Please don't speak as if I'm a fool. You know precisely who I am." Arthur insisted, drawing a pistol from his coat. With a fluid turn of his wrist the pistol took its mark, settling for a spot between the Spaniard's eyes. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

"I have told you what I know." First replied, too calm for Arthur's liking. A small click from the pistol was enough to settle that, causing the man to consider the weapon -and his words- with much greater care. "The King is aware of the situation."

" _Situation?"_ Arthur gawked. "This here is much more than a situation, don't you think?"

"You do not know the whole truth." First spoke slowly, meeting Arthur’s stare. The Captain’s mood had darkened like the seas, and no sailor had the nerve to question his motives, or come to the man’s aid. “We sail under the King’s command-”

“I didn’t ask about that-”

“ _For him!_ ” First exclaimed, nodding to Antonio. By then his hands were up either side of his head, and all traces of his earlier arrogance were gone. “I do not know of your relationship, but this man has changed.”

“How so?” Arthur droned, and adjusted his hold on the pistol. The trigger was beginning to tempt him.

“It is his head.” First croaked. “The Devil has taken it. Makes him-...”

“Makes him what?”

No answer came. First shook his head side to side, and trembled with such a might that Arthur was forced to retract his weapon, for fear that the coward might piss himself to death, and blame the Devil for that as well.

“Where are you bound?” Arthur asked, changing the subject.

“... nds.”

“Speak up.”

“The Netherlands!” First repeated louder. Shortly after he looked over his shoulder, to the treasures in the following room. “They have promised to correct him, for a price.”

Arthur suspected as much, but it grieved him all the same. He shot Antonio a pitying stare, and reached a hand back into his coat. To the relief of his audience no pistol came, but a small leather pouch which rattled when it shook, and appeared heavy in Arthur’s hand.

“How much?”

“He is not for sale, you fool!” First laughed, his voice cracking with nerves. “He has committed sins, and will receive punishment equal to that of his deeds!”

“I know precisely what your plans are for him.” Arthur stated matter of factly. “And I’m telling you now, it won’t work.”

“You know nothing of his acts-”

“But I know a lot about the Devil.” Arthur mused. “And the Dutch. They’ll rob you of every penny, given the chance.”

“We have their word.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do you.” Arthur snorted, scanning the room. Needless to say his crew were stunned, torn between finishing the man off themselves, and asking what on earth all the fuss was about.

“I have people who deal with this.” Arthur continued, jerking his head to Antonio. “They use methods which might... _upset_ your pure, humble beliefs... but they are effective.”

“He is-”

“Time’s running out.” Arthur pressed, giving the bag another shake. “Will you accept my offer or not?”

“I will not take a bribery.” First settled.

“It’s a payment.” Arthur clarified. “Let me take him away for treatment, and it’s yours. It should be more than enough to feed your lot until he is returned.”

First’s interest piqued. “Go on-”

_“Captain!”_

“Silence!” Arthur snapped to his crew. Their interruptions were far from necessary. “My men will ensure that you and your ship come to no harm during your stay, and should you require further money, it will be there.”

“A good offer.” First conceded. To the dismay of the Englishmen his confident self was returning, the mere smell of the coins bringing him back to his senses. “But let’s presume that you might fail, and he is not cured. That will be a great waste of time on both our parts.”

“Which I’ve considered.” Arthur lied. He stared about the room once more, and drew a long, deep breath. “In the case that I am unsuccessful, I will join you for the remainder of your travels. I'll explain the delay to your King, if it is required.”

“Your Queen would not be happy.” The Spaniard laughed then, enjoying the turn of events. “But you have a deal.”

"Then it's settled." Arthur tossed him the bag of coins, and outstretched his hand. “Let's shake on it.”

“I’d rather not.”

“It’s a courteous gesture.”

“You know nothing of the sort.” First spat, and turned on his heel. “Now take him and leave, before I change my mind.”

 

* * *

  

Arthur swallowed the last of his ale, and slapped the tankard to the bar. Back at his base, a tavern on the far end of town, he planned to stifle his worries with laughter and drink, but only the latter was available on tap.

The former was much harder to find. All about him his men sat drinking and muttering among themselves, a far cry from the jokers and dancers Arthur admired.

Boring bastards.

 

“Alright, speak up you sorry bunch of-... something or others.” Arthur grunted, lazily waving a hand back and forth. “One of you must feel brave enough to ask what happened back there?”

“You’re the Captain.” One stated, supported by nodding and mumbling from his peers. “S’not our place to say what’s right and wrong.”

 _Cowards._ Arthur rolled his eyes, and slouched in his seat. He thought a few drinks would be enough to lift their mood, but an hour or so later they were still miserable, whilst he was becoming increasingly drunk.

Only young Peter was an exception, as per usual, who manned the bar with a gentle smile, and refilled Arthur’s tankard without question.

“I’ve never seen you so passionate.” He said, chancing his luck. Within seconds the room erupted into fretting and hissing for him to be quiet, but Peter stood his ground.

“I have been passionate _many_ times. In the pirating sense.” Arthur replied, adding the last part in haste.

“Perhaps, but that was something quite different.” Peter stated. “Usually you would have asked for some of their gold as part of the deal, and yet all you took- that is to say…”

“You went fer the pretty face!” Another sailor -the one who had inspected Antonio- flung himself at the bar beside Arthur and waved for another ale. His arrival turned Arthur’s expression sour, and with a half arsed swipe Arthur managed to slap the back of his head.

“Always thinking with your prick... You’re a bad man, Thomas.”

“You deprived us of our needs yet again!”

“Did not.” Arthur deadpanned. “You’ve had plenty of the local women.”

“Not the ones during our raids.” Thomas replied. “Remember the nice one aboard that French ship, the light haired thing? She wanted me as much as I wanted her!”

“She would have stabbed you the first chance she got.” Arthur joked, and slapped his back this time. “Also she was French. I think that says enough.”

“Says the man with a Spaniard in his bed.”

“Where else d’you suppose I put him?!” Arthur asked, and threw up his hands. It was no secret to the crew that he struggled to hold his drink, so by that time his voice had risen to a screech, and his gestures became wild and exaggerated.  

“There’s a spare room.” Peter suggested.

“It’s filthy.” Arthur countered.

“The man’s been out for hours!” Thomas laughed. “Who is he t’ sniff at a bit of dirt?”

“Antonio deserves better.”

“ _Antonio_ …?”

 

Peter met Thomas’ curious gaze, and then peered across the tavern. Suffice to say all eyes were on Arthur, and any tension had long since vanished. Instead of sour faces all he saw were grins and jeers, and a few men winking to one another.

“ _Antonio.”_ Thomas repeated, testing it over and over on his tongue. “So the princess has a name.”

“Of course he does, you bloody fool.” Arthur slurred, snatching up his tankard. Ale splashed everywhere in the process, but Arthur paid it no mind until he returned the empty cup to the bar, and complained that it had hardly been filled. “It’s one of several, but not that it matters.”

“You have many names yourself.” Peter reminded him calmly.

“That’s because we’re the same.” Arthur replied without hesitation, then inhaled sharp. His eyes became unusually large, as did those of his men, and for a moment the tavern fell quiet.

“Captain.” Peter managed to find his words, barely. “If what you say is true then-”

“We’ve got fucking Spain itself under our roof!” Thomas finished.

“The Spanish Empire, if we must be precise.” Arthur corrected, raising his index finger. “But he’s perfectly harmless, no need to worry!”

The rest of the room begged to differ. Once again the tavern exploded with noise, whilst Peter and Thomas looked to Arthur with dismay.

The risks had become even higher than anticipated.

 

“Captain…” Peter sighed, fetching him another drink. “What if word spreads of this? To the Queen, I mean.”

“The Queen ain’t the problem.” Said Thomas. “What we gots to worry about is Señor Empire kicking up a foul stench.”

“He’s quite clean.” Arthur half spoke, half gargled from behind his tankard. The sight of it all made Peter smile, whilst Thomas rolled his eyes and waited for Arthur to finish.

“The point is mate-” He continued, tapping Arthur’s shoulder to get his attention. “If he’s anythin’ like yerself he’s no weak lass. I doubt he’s gonna’ take news of this deal very well.”

“He is rather strong.” Arthur said, missing the point. “Quite muscular too, not that you were able to tell-”

“He’s gonna’ kill us all.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t think he’ll be impressed.” Peter chipped in. “But if I may be bold… you speak rather fondly of him, are you friends?”

 _“I have done no such thing!”_ Arthur gasped. He slapped a hand to the table without warning, utterly unaware of his surroundings. “Just because I let him in my bed does not have any implication as to what I feel or-”

“Are you _friends_ , you drunk bastard?” Thomas laughed.

“I am acquainted with him.” Arthur answered, wondering why Peter looked set to hide beneath the bar. “And as a good acquaintance I will have to make sacrifices.”

“You’ve offered the Spanish your bloody head.”

“What is it with you and my bed?!” Arthur exclaimed, throwing up his arms.

“I said _head_.”

“ _Whose_ head?!”

“Forget it.” Thomas sighed, rubbing his temples. Before he knew it Arthur was staggering down from his seat, and wobbled to the door mentioning something about the toilet. “... I’m too old for this.”

“It’s been a long night for us all.” Peter spoke kindly, watching Arthur go. “Shall I prepare the spare room for him tonight?”

 _“Fuck it!_ ”

Thomas winced as Arthur marched straight into the door, then blamed the nearby stool for his injury.

“... Aye lad. You’d best do that.”


	3. Jade

 The following morning Arthur awoke to a dilemma, and a thumping headache. He slouched against the bar clutching fistfuls of his hair, and muttered curses beneath his breath whenever the gulls outside shrieked too loud.

 “My blasted memory’s been snatched.” He declared, thanking Peter when he brought a small ale to the bar. His usual breakfast. “I blame the storm. Something was afoot in those waters. Wicked creatures... sirens, perhaps.”

“Sirens indeed.” Peter mused, eyeing Arthur’s tankard. “May I ask what memories they’ve stolen?”

Arthur scrunched his nose. “Much of the tavern is lost to me. Save for Thomas and his whining about that French tart.”

“He is rather fond of her.”

“Was.”

“ _Is_.” Peter stressed. “Clearly he sees something good in her.”

“A fine pair of tits and a quick shag.” Arthur scoffed, and downed the ale in one. “The man has needs, and she has the means to satisfy them. That is all.”

“I thought you enjoyed a romance?” Peter asked.

“Romance has no place in a ship raid.” Arthur replied. “It dulls both the blade and the mind.”

“I suppose.”

“It’s true.” Arthur pressed, wagging his index finger in warning. “I tell you now boy, should love ever come to your door, run as fast as you can. It’s not worth it.”

“But I might like a wife one day.” Peter said with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “A lovely, honest sort whom I could depend upon, and she upon me. We’d be partners. Equals.”

“You’ll be dead with that attitude.”

 _“_ Let me  _dream-”_

“And be condemned to an early grave? I think not.” Arthur scolded. He brought the tankard back to his lips, and abruptly down to the counter upon finding it empty. “Peter, I have seen _thousands_ of romances, all dreamt by hopefuls such as yourself, and none of them have met a pretty end.”

“Perhaps I’ll be different-”

“For pity’s sake, you’ve seen what love makes men do!” Arthur cried. “The most adapt, brilliant minds of my land have all been ruined by desire. They’ve gone through torture and exile in the name of their beloved, only to never see them again!”

“And what of yourself?”

Arthur’s tongue stilled. It wedged into the pocket of his cheek, tasting alcohol and regret, before coming loose once more. He was used to the judging eyes of the court, the church and prats like Thomas, but Peter was never one to complain.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It was just a thought, forgive me.”

Arthur shook his head, and adopted a kinder voice. “Tell me, please.”

It took some trying, but eventually Peter looked his way. His fingers knotted together tight, and he cast a wary glance to the stairs above.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the deal you made last night.” He confessed, and hung his head. “At first I thought it rash, but the more you drank and spoke of it, the more I realised you were determined to see it through. That it wasn’t a joke to delay the Spaniards.”

“And you wonder what made me do it?”

Peter nodded slowly. “I don’t doubt your judgement, but I do worry for you.”

“... You really are too good.” Arthur spoke softly, humbled by his compassion. He left his seat in a single, graceful motion, and grabbed for a set of keys hanging at the back of the bar. Most of them were useless, or their purpose forgotten, save for a smaller key which Arthur singled out, before heading to the cellar stairs. “Help yourself to a drink and a rest. You’ve earnt it.”

“But Captain-!” Peter scrambled his way around the bar, just in time to see Arthur pause halfway down the stairs, and flash him a genuine smile.

“What is it, lad?”

“You… you never told me why.” Peter replied. “Why did you save him?”

Arthur shrugged, and his smile grew. “You tell me.”

 

* * *

 

 “ _You tell me...?_ Wretched, maggots-for-brains buggerhead!” Arthur hissed in shame, moving along the hallway as if it were lined with hot coals. He could have told Peter something witty, or thought provoking, but instead he had dodged the matter altogether, like a petty, damned fool.

Yes, fool. Arthur thought that fit his image rather well. His hair was dishevelled, his forehead bore an ugly bruise, and his feet betrayed every command, staggering this way and that as he entered his room. At the very least he was glad he brought Antonio to his bed whilst sober, and thought to hide any items which might offend his holy guest.

“Still asleep.” Arthur uttered just above a whisper, finding the man himself tucked up in bed, with his blood-like cloak serving as a blanket.

 

 Although Arthur admired the quality of the fabric, something about the cloak seemed off. It was too heavy, too red, _too much_ for Antonio, the carefree soul who basked in the sun, and charmed Arthur’s brutish pirates without lifting a finger. Or an eyelid.

Antonio probably wore it with pride, and that bothered Arthur most of all. Along with the priceless gems in each ear, and his great length of hair, Antonio had become much prettier than Arthur last recalled. No doubt he was greater, _stronger_ than before too, whilst Arthur had become repeatedly drunk, and stank of sea salt and fish. 

It was cruel fate indeed, but one Arthur took in his stride. With a substantial huff he pulled up a chair to the bed, and set a large bottle down by his feet. After that he got comfortable and talked to himself, as per usual. Muttering about the raids, how much food and riches he had claimed, and the sweet thought of punching one of his foreign neighbours in the face, just because he could.

Those talks always improved his mood, but the moment his smile returned it was gone, dashed by a glimpse of wary, green eyes. 

Amidst his ramblings Antonio had awoken, and Arthur sat there like a priest in a brothel, utterly dumbfounded. He said nothing whilst Antonio propped himself up with an elbow, and pushed that lovely hair from his face, but he hoped to hell and back his body would not betray his mind, and convey any filthy, _inconvenient_ thoughts.

“ _You_ …” Antonio made an effort to focus, then drawled in tired English. “You are not the Netherlands.”

Arthur swallowed, wondering where to look next. He followed the trail of beads about Antonio’s neck, belonging to rosary no doubt, but cursed when it slipped beneath his shirt, and highlighted the soft curves of his chest. “... Indeed I am not.”

“Why am I here?” Antonio asked next, staring across the room. Although he enjoyed the sun, the room was too bright for his liking, and some strange bird insisted on screaming just outside the window. Then there was the smell, sour and salty and everything which made his nose wrinkle. “I was on a ship...”

“There was a storm.” Arthur replied, composing himself with a cough. “It forced your ship to dock at my port. You’re not the only one though. There’s a lot of merchant ships too.”

“I see.” Antonio took his tale with a thoughtful hum. Everytime he tried to make eye contact Arthur’s eyes were gone, finding another place on his body, or the bed, and that would not do at all. “Say, Arthur…?”

“What?”

Antonio curled his index finger, drawing Arthur in. “Come closer. The light is too much.”

Arthur had thought the same, to be perfectly honest, and left his chair without a second thought. Needless to say it was a trap, and a simple one at that, but Arthur stupidly obliged, and was greeted by a sharp, whip-like slap, followed by the taste of blood in his mouth.

_"You bloody, god forsaken-!!”_

“So I am not dreaming.” Antonio gasped. A jumble of frantic Spanish and English left his lips, whilst Arthur nursed the bruise on his cheek, and hurried to spit out of the window.

“Of course you’re not, you blundering idiot!”

“Why am I in England?” Antonio continued to fret, his eyes blown wide. “Morales mentioned no change in the plans, and I-” he paused to look down at the bed sheets, then groaned. “Tell me this isn’t your bed.”

“Oh calm yourself already, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.” Arthur remarked, wiping the corner of his mouth.

“I disagree.” Antonio countered. “There is no explanation, as there was no storm. You saw the chance to raid my ship, and you took it!”

“Take a look out the window, love.” Arthur replied, rolling his eyes. “The sea blasted my docks to pieces.”

“Fine.” Antonio stiffened. “Yes. Maybe I will go see for myself!”

“You’re not leaving.”

“I am too leaving.” Antonio shot back, catching sight of the door. Arthur’s eyes followed suit, and he left his spot by the window to grab the irrational prat.

The man was fast, Arthur would give him that, but fortunately for him he was also tired and confused. In his desperation to flee Antonio did not notice the sheets caught about his ankle, and so the instant he left the bed they pulled him down, hurtling to the floorboards with a thump and a muffled “ _¡Ay!”_

“You tit.” Arthur chuckled, coming to his aid.

 

* * *

 

 Arthur uncorked the bottle with a hearty pop, and poured some wine into two small cups. He watched the liquid with a curious gaze, then caught the eye of someone just beyond. A miserable Antonio who sat up straight against the headboard, both arms folded across his chest.

“Give me back my body.”

“I cannot return that which I have not taken.” Arthur laughed, sipping from his cup.

“You’ve cursed me.” Antonio huffed. True enough only his arms, neck and head responded to his will, whilst the rest of his body stuck firm, bound to the bed by an unseen force. “I am not keen on your magics, so stop it.”

“If I break the spell you’ll run off.” Arthur explained calmly, handing Antonio a cup. “I need you to listen.”

“I refuse.” Antonio scoffed, taking a swig of the wine. Out of spite he planned to spit it back out, but to his frustrations the wine tasted pleasant, and ran smooth down his throat.

“It’s Spanish.” Arthur showed the bottle for good measure. “Expensive too, so don’t waste it.”

“You probably stole it.”

“Have some faith will you? I can be decent.”

Antonio turned up his nose, and continued to drink. Neither man spoke until he was done, which suited Arthur just fine, but he did not take kindly to the cup that was thrust in his direction, and the stubborn spark in Antonio’s eyes.

“More.”

“Say please.”

“I have said enough in your tongue.”

“Then we’ll speak Spanish.” Arthur proposed, snatching the cup. “It’s a little rusty, but I think I can remember enough-”

“No, forget it. Words are not the problem.” Antonio’s face turned sour. “Your accent is terrible.”

“Well forgive me for spoiling your pretty language, _your highness_.” Arthur cracked a smirk, and placed a full cup in Antonio’s waiting hand. The second cup went down much faster than the first, a feat Arthur inwardly praised him for, but just when he made to voice his awe he noticed a purplish bruise on Antonio’s forehead, and spluttered on his own drink.

“What is funny?” Antonio scowled from behind his cup.

“Nothing, nothing.” Arthur snorted, and reclined in his seat. “Anyway, I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me more than that.”

“That’s my line.” Arthur warned. “I’ve done you a substantial favour.”

Antonio challenged his statement with a hum. Slowly then his cup left his lips, and his scowl started to soften. Just a little. “Then you were not lying about the storm?”

“I was not. Nor was I lying about the ships, you really were stranded here.”

“I see.”

Arthur nodded, pausing to think. “You mentioned a _Moraley_ earlier-”

“Morales.” Antonio clarified. “A man of the court. My first mate.”

“A coward and a traitor.” Arthur grimaced. “He was ready to sell you off to the Dutch.”

Antonio shot him a glare. “That is quite the accusation.”

“It’s the truth. He said so himself.”

“ _Willingly?_ ”

“Well...” Arthur hesitated at first, smiling when the memory of that wretched, quivering bastard came to mind. “Men speak with clarity when there’s a pistol involved.”

“I knew it.”

Antonio tapped his finger against the side of his cup, and turned his head towards the window. Whether he liked it or not, Arthur’s account was convincing, and Antonio’s memory of the ship was too dull to dismiss his claim.

He could vaguely remember the crew, and how strange Morales had been the day they set sail. He was always irritable, _tense_ in Antonio’s presence at court, so his invitation to drink up on deck had come quite sudden. Antonio recalled the wine tasting off as well, but put that down to his taste buds, and retired to the lower deck soon after.

 

“Some wine for your thoughts?” Arthur spoke gently, holding up the bottle.

“No, I’ve had enough.”

“Suit yourself.”

Antonio resigned himself with a sigh. The sight of Arthur struggling to cork the bottle was funny, yet he did not laugh. Instead he observed the man quietly, visibly grieved by the turn of events.

“What did he say to you...?”

“Hrm? Oh, of course.” Arthur licked a trail of wine from his finger, and set the bottle aside. “Morales said he was leaving you with the Dutch for a while, something about you being corrected.”

Antonio inhaled sharp. “I do not think so. I was told the church had a job for me-”

“Well yes.” Arthur agreed. “The highly esteemed job of _‘Get on your knees and keep quiet whilst we beat you senseless in the name of God_ ’.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m afraid it is. They were going to pay quite a handsome sum for it too.” Arthur interrupted. “Hell, perhaps dear Netherlands himself would have joined in. I’m certain he’s got reasons to harm you.”

“Don’t bring him into this-”

“We all have our enemies.” Arthur reasoned, letting his gaze wander over Antonio. “And our demons too, it seems.”

“Meaning…?”

Arthur shook his head. Clearly Antonio was struggling to make sense of the news. “Morales thinks the Devil has gotten in your head. The Dutch caught wind and convinced him they could get rid of it.”

Antonio raised a hand on instinct, stopping halfway along his hair. “You _what?_ ”

“Apparently you’re possessed. Don’t ask me how, it’s your own bloody skull.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us.” Arthur complained. “What matters is that things have changed. You’re not going to the Netherlands.”

“Then you-... no.” Antonio looked to the bed, then Arthur. “You couldn’t have. Not unless you-”

“I made a better offer. End of.” Arthur finished, to his dismay. “Morales and your men are staying in the port under my protection, whilst I see to it that the Devil is removed from your body.”

 _“Arthur-_ ” Antonio hung his head with a groan, and ran a hand through his hair. “You _idiot!!_ ”

“I saved your life.” Arthur pressed. Carefully then he moved to perch by Antonio’s side, but kept an eye on his hands just in case. “This won’t be for long, promise. I don’t think for a moment there’s anything wrong with your mind.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you better than most.” Arthur flashed a warm smile. Not a smug, pirating smile, but a considerate, gentle sort that disarmed Antonio entirely. It almost earnt the stupid man another slap, but Antonio kept his hands firmly in his lap, and bit at his lower lip.

“We’re supposed to be enemies. Your people keep attacking my ships, _stealing_ and provoking my King-”

“And I expect you to be angry, as an empire.” Arthur conceded. “But as men, I think we can make peace, no?”

“Morales will kill you.”

“Only if we fail.” Arthur smiled harder. “All you have to do is stay here for a week or so, return to your ship acting saintlike and sweet, and Morales will think you’re cured. Understood?”

Antonio considered the idea with a long, deep breath. Arthur always did have a knack for testing one’s patience; practiced it enough in the English court when Philip and Mary were married, but it was not so funny when that cheek was directed at him.

“Very well, I’ll play your game.”

 


	4. Copper

England had changed since Antonio last paid a visit.

The skies remained temperamental, and the seas still very much cold, but the air had definitely shifted. People moaned about foreign relations more than the weather -which said a lot- and they held no qualms with yelling violent threats, or waving weapons in the street.

The land had taken a drastic turn, and Arthur’s body reflected those changes. His mannerisms were slow and considered, and he sat across the room with a book to hand, and an air of discontent. His features were likewise leaner, sharper, and dare Antonio say it, the man looked rather handsome.

“Arturo?”

The name left Antonio’s mouth without thinking, but Arthur paid it no mind. In fact he hardly registered it at all, his gaze still transfixed upon the book.

“Yes?”

“I… I was wondering.” Antonio broke into a laugh, his nervous habit. “Since I am to stay a while, there should be some kind of… arrangement?”

Arthur appeared to be bored, but whether it was the book or the conversation that caused it, Antonio could not say. “What kind of arrangement?”

“Well, where should I sleep?”

“Is that bed not suitable?”

Antonio blinked, taken aback. “But it is your bed.”

“Ah, quite right. I suppose we might encourage unnecessary talk.” Arthur realised, and closed his book with a puff of air. “I have a spare room, if you’d like? It’ll need a clean, but you’re welcome to use it whilst you’re here.”

“Thank you.” Antonio replied, smiling bright. Beneath the grumpy facade and complaints, it seemed that the Arthur he remembered still lingered.

“Why’re you thanking me?”

“Because you’ve done so much, when you didn’t have to.”

“Don’t think too hard on it.”

 

That was easier said than done. Kindness was a stranger to Antonio as of late. His court was angry, his people were angry, other nations fought or ignored him, and even the palace cat had started to hiss whenever he walked by.

Antonio planned to embrace the moment for what it was worth, whilst Arthur sat shaking his head. It had been a long time since he came across a neighbour with good intentions, so humble and sweet and- whatever Antonio was.

“Don’t you worry about my crew either.” Arthur added out of nowhere. “They’re a rough bunch, but decent enough.”

“Are they pirates?” Antonio wondered.

“Depends who’s asking.” Arthur smiled. “Between you and me, yes. But in the eyes of the law, they’re honest, hard working sailors. I chose them all myself.”

“Your Queen lets you do that?”

“Your King doesn’t?”

Antonio pursed his lips, and moved his head side to side. If he could choose a crew of his own Morales certainly wouldn’t have been in it, nor would the traitorous souls who simply sat by, and let the man lock him away.

“I see.” Arthur replied, letting out a pensive breath. With that he slowly rose from his chair, and paced his way to the door. “There’s food and drink downstairs. Get yourself some breakfast, and take it easy. You’ll find no danger under this roof.”

“Thank you, Arturo.”

Arthur’s lips quirked into a smile, finding the variation endearing. “De nada, Anthony.”

“Please don't.” Antonio winced, pointing his thumb down hard. “That sounds awful.”

 

* * *

  
 

 Every now and then, Peter hated his afternoon shift.

Sometimes it was quiet, and peaceful, and other times he would be left handling the crew, and getting them out of bed. Usually that involved nursing a few sore heads or making breakfast, followed by numerous demands before the men took their leave, and headed on out to town.

  
Once gone they left Peter to his devices, namely the list of chores to complete. Cleaning the tavern was the biggest and most arduous, followed closely by the clothes wash, and preparations for dinner.

On second thoughts the last one was the most important, namely because Peter could not cook. It was no secret that the crew ate his food out of courtesy, and would abruptly wash the taste down with a beer.

“Stupid men with no manners or tastebuds…” He grumbled, slapping his cloth to the bar.

 

* * *

 

  
“I wonder how he’s gettin’ on with all that work...”

Arthur spared Thomas a moment of his attention, enough to grunt that is, and returned his gaze to his papers. Their next destination was the bakers, who promised to shower him with bread after saving their boat from pirates.

 _Such irony_ , Arthur mused, until Thomas gave his arm a jab.

“You in there? I’m talkin’.”

“I’m aware.” Arthur droned. “And Peter will be fine. He’s a capable lad.”

“He pushes himself too hard.”

“Then you should’ve stayed behind and helped.”

“I can’t.” Thomas blinked. “Gotta’ carry your supplies for the princess.”

“That’s not-” Arthur blurted, and turned the other way. “We’re not shopping for _him_!”

Thomas smirked and slapped his back. “He’d look fetching in a dress.”

“And you’d look better if you shut up.” Arthur retaliated, his cheeks burning bright with embarrassment. If it wasn’t Peter they were discussing, it was Antonio, namely his hair and his skin and all manner of lovely things.

 

Partway during their travels Arthur mistakenly brought up his eyes, a pleasant nostalgic green, and Thomas refused to let it go. All he had done was compare them, rambled about his beautiful forests, and before he knew it Thomas had taken his vision and run, tailoring the story to his whim.

“Such pretty gems.” Thomas snorted, thinking back on it. “Can’t wait to see ‘em.”

“You leave him be.” Arthur warned. “He’s our guest.”

“That goes double for you, _Captain._ ”

“Be quiet.”

Thomas folded both arms behind his head, and followed his captain in silence. Not because of Arthur’s order however, but because he found the state of affairs quite curious.

One moment they had been rolling in spoils, celebrating a successful night’s raid, whilst the next they were playing host to a Spaniard. The Empire kind at that.

“What’s his place like?” Thomas asked after a while.

“Pleasant enough, last I recall.” Arthur replied. “Why’d you ask?”

“Because you are the land.” Thomas uttered, searching for potential eavesdroppers. “And he is his. Only you can tell if he’s really- y’know...”

“You mean if his crew are paranoid, or correct?”

Thomas didn’t want to admit it, but his face spoke volumes on its own. No matter which of the two it was, something definitely seemed strange in the first mate’s tale, and it was up to them to discover what it was.

 

* * *

  
  
 By the time Arthur and Thomas returned, they were met with grievous news. Several of their men had gathered outside the local tavern, rather than their own, and peered towards their base with apprehension.

“Captain, come quick. It’s terrible!”

Arthur was quick to oblige, scanning the crowd first to take count. As far as he could see everyone was present, save for Peter, which only made their worries more puzzling.

“Speak up, men. What’s happened?”

“It’s him.” One mustered the courage to talk, looking up and down the street. “Your princess.”

“He’s not a princess, and he has a name.” Arthur scolded, blaming Thomas in full for that nickname. “Has something happened to him?”

“Not him, specifically. But go look for yourself.”

The cowards left Arthur no choice. He patted his sides to locate his weapons, and with a jerk of his head marched the group back to their beloved tavern. His men could be absolute fools when they wanted, but just as he was about to accuse them of trickery, he stumbled upon their base in all its prime. And a few additional sights.

 

High upon the tavern, from the upstairs windows, hung several lines of clothing. Shirts, breeches, even Arthur’s bed sheets were up there, swaying gently in the breeze like a flag of domestication. Down below all the windows and doors were opened, and every now and then a great plume of dust shot out, followed by Peter weilding a broom in both hands.

“The lad’s gone mad.” Thomas gasped, rubbing his eyes for good measure. Last he recalled Peter was not that adept at cleaning, and certainly had no desire to be thorough. Even his usual clothes had been washed, leaving the boy no choice but to wear a shirt and hose far too large for his build, tightly bound round his waist with a rope.

“Careful now men.” Arthur spoke, keeping cool all the while. “We go in.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter barely said a word when he saw them. His greetings were rushed, but polite, and to Arthur he gave a humble bow. He made no effort to stop the captain on his journey, allowing Arthur to enter a tavern akin to his old home, but with an entirely different scent.

“It’s unbelievably.... _clean_.” He whispered, gawking left and right. The bar itself was gleaming: all of the kegs bound up tight and flush to the wall, whilst the bottles had received a good polish, and were lined up neatly along the shelves.

The tables and chairs were just as faultless, tucked into place with great precision, and from the kitchen came the sounds of frantic chopping.

“Antonio...?” He guessed, heading to the kitchen. “What is he-”

Arthur readied himself to shout, then clapped his rowdy mouth shut tight. His abused, neglected, almost forgotten kitchen had seen the most incredible transformation of all.

 

Every utensil had been cleaned, even some Arthur never remembered owning, and all his knives had been returned to their rack. A spectrum of vegetables littered the counters, finely chopped and ready for the pot, but best of all was the chef himself. Like Peter, Antonio had surrendered his clothes to the wash, but instead of hose he opted for the biggest piece of fabric he could find, and fashioned it into a long skirt.

On anybody else, Arthur would have laughed, but Antonio pulled it off like an art. Even his hair, tied with a cloth bandana, managed to look stylish without barely trying.

“What is this?” Arthur asked, trying to convey a sense of authority.

“It will be dinner.” Antonio replied, smiling bright. “You don’t mind me cooking, do you?”

“I don’t have any complaints.”

_“Nor us!!”_

Arthur sighed and looked over his shoulder. Without his knowing the crew had snuck closer to get a glimpse of their newest addition, and stood there like a bunch of timid schoolboys in the doorway, rather than the raiding, blood thirsty scoundrels that they were.

“What’re you lot doing?” He asked.

“We’re being polite.” Thomas spoke on their behalf. “We must uh… introduce ourselves.”

“Oh, of course!” Antonio blurted an apology in his own tongue and hastily set down his knife. Quickly then he wiped his hands on his apron -a sweet addition Arthur had not seen until he turned round- and hurried over to Arthur’s side. “I should have done so sooner-”

“No, no. Not you.” Arthur waved a hand back and forth. “This lot. You haven’t got a reason to be sorry.”

Antonio apparently believed otherwise. At first he held out his arms to embrace, then dropped them quickly by his sides with a frantic mumble. It had been a long time since he affiliated with a Brit, let alone greet one, but he recalled them being closed, _private_ sorts compared to the French and Italians.

“I… forget.”

“You look like you’re in pain.” Arthur laughed softly. “Please, don’t worry yourself with this lot-”

“I think we should make him feel at home. Greet him his way.” Thomas suggested. “A kiss or two never did a man any harm-”

“I’ll cut your lips from your face if you try.” Arthur warned, causing many of the crew to slink away before things got out of hand. The few who remained, Thomas and his plucky companions, figured it would be more enjoyable to wait it out, and see how long Arthur could maintain a stern facade.

“In all seriousness though...” Thomas piped up. “How d’we refer to you?”

Antonio blinked. “My name is fine.”

“Arthur here says yer an Empire.” Thomas elaborated, ignoring his captain’s glare. “It wouldn’t be right to insult that hard work, so if there’s a title or something, we should use it-”

“Antonio is fine. Really.” Antonio held up his hands, and mumbled when he spoke. The mention of Empires clearly bothered him, Arthur realised, as if he wished to disregard his achievement altogether.

“... Alright, if you insist.” Thomas accepted his request nonetheless, and signalled for his peers to get moving. “’S’ good to meet you, Antonio.”  

“Same to you.” Antonio returned the gesture, and wandered back to the kitchen counter.

  
 For a couple of uncomfortable minutes, the kitchen fell to near silence. Antonio got back to preparing vegetables, whilst Arthur lingered across the room, scrutinising him under his stare. Antonio owed him nothing, and yet he took it upon himself to bring the tavern back into shape, and prepare them a meal to boot.

“What’re you making?” Arthur asked, looking across the room. The amount of ingredients upon the counters was astonishing, or perhaps normal, Arthur did not cook enough to know either way.

“Three courses.” Antonio replied, concentrating on his work. “… Vegetable soup, lamb casserole, and sugar pastries to finish-”

“Are you well man?!” Arthur exclaimed, hurrying close to get a look at Antonio’s face. “I thought one course for this lot was enough, but _three_?”

Antonio paused to think, utterly taken aback. “… Is it not good? I could change the menu to your liking-”

“No, no. The menu is incredible.” Arthur assured him, and turned his head this way and that. Antonio could not, and should not, prepare such a feast on his own. “I’ll find you some help-”

“I’m quite happy by myself.”

“This’ll take you hours!!”

Antonio had figured that much already, watching Arthur’s outburst with a kind smile. “Arturo, you worry too much. This kind of job is easy for me.”

“You lie. There’s so much to do!”

“It is fine.” Antonio insisted, still smiling. “... When things are what they are, you learn to get by.”

Arthur cocked his head, and his mood became stern. It was hard to spot at first, but for an instant Antonio’s eyes became dull, sad, and his voice hitched up when he spoke.

“Do you…” Arthur hesitated, not wanting to cause offense. “Back home I mean, is this-”

“Forgive me.” Antonio interrupted gently. “But I am not so good at talking and cooking, would you mind…?”

“Of course. Sorry. Guess you need to concentrate.”

Arthur almost tripped over his own feet as he returned to the exit. “I’ll uh, I’ll close the door if you like. Keep anybody from disturbing you.”

“Thank you.” Antonio replied with his back still turned. After that the sound of chopping resumed, a solemn beat in Arthur’s ears as he shut the door, and made his way back across the tavern.

 

 


	5. Garnet

 Up until that evening, Arthur had underestimated the power of food. If prepared poorly, one could cripple an entire ship, but if done properly, one achieved something brilliant, and different, altogether.

Whether it was his intention or not, Antonio’s cooking had brought about a night of relaxed conversation, reminiscing, and overall jolly spirits. Gone were the cussing, brutish pirates, and in their place sat courteous, humble men, each with their own dreams and aspirations.

That aside, the meal was magnificent. The timings were right, the temperature was right, and the flavours were so well balanced they went down Arthur's stomach without a fight. If the rest of his men felt the same there would be no queue for the toilet later on, or unpleasant smells to rouse them from their sleep.

 

“Antonio, sir, you’ve done an incredible job.” Peter commented, eyeing his empty plate, then the man in question. “I wish I could achieve the same.”

“I can teach you.” Antonio offered. “Is tomorrow good?”

Peter’s eyes lit up like sparks. “Tomorrow would be perfect!”

“Then I shall do so.” Antonio replied, taking Arthur’s plate to the kitchen once the final pastry was gone. Despite changing back into his breeches many eyes still followed him on the way, admiring the unusual, pleasant view.

“Psst, Arthur.”

 _Thomas._ Arthur realised with a groan. “What is it?”

For a second Thomas did not answer, and had one of the other men swap seats so he could get closer to their captain.

“He’s a good catch, all right.”

“He’s our guest, not a fish.” Arthur deadpanned, glancing to the kitchen out of habit. “And I thought I told you to keep your distance.”

“You’ve said a lot of things.” Thomas jeered. “And so has ‘e. His English is lovely.”

“It is!” A man whispered to his left. “There’s somethin’ soft, somethin’ _deep_ to it-”

“Like a cat’s purr.” Thomas sighed, and placed his chin in his hand. After that he sat grinning to himself, humming a while before glancing Arthur’s way. “I think that suits ‘im well. Don’t you?”

“Kittens are quite sweet.” Arthur agreed, then spluttered on his embarrassment. The words had left his mouth without thinking, and right on time Antonio returned from the kitchen, smiling bright with good intentions.

“Antonio!” Thomas greeted fondly. “Great meal, really well done mate.”

“You’re very kind.” Antonio replied with that same, lovely purr. “Is everything alright?”

“He’s just fine.” Thomas answered on Arthur’s behalf. “But anyway, I got a question.”

“Of course.” Antonio nodded, forever obliging. “What is it?”

“Well…” Thomas grinned hard. The bastard. “How d’you say kitten in Spanish?”

“Pardon?”

“Ignore him.” Arthur warned whilst avoiding eye contact. “And Thomas. Leave him be.”

“He's alright.” Antonio insisted, grateful for the interest regardless. “We use gatito for boy kittens, gatita for girls.”

“Gatito is perfect.” Thomas applauded. “Very cute.”

“They are cute.” Antonio added, missing the point entirely. “Do you own any?”

“Nah, not necessarily.” Thomas answered, kicking a frowny Arthur beneath the table. “But this place tends to attract a lot of strays. Small, _sweet_ creatures...”

“That sounds wonderful.” Antonio replied wholeheartedly, directing his comment to Arthur. “I hope you treat them well.”

“... We do our best.” Arthur mumbled, and turned his head elsewhere.

 

* * *

 

  
 Needless to say, the crew’s jibes did not stop after dinner. The story of _gatito_ spread through the tavern like fire, resulting in further taunts and winks from a few brave souls.

Sometimes Arthur struggled to believe he was the captain, that he garnered any respect from those idiots, but when Peter passed him a tankard his worries subsided. Reassured by the homely scent of ale.

“Just what I needed.” He sighed, drinking half the contents in one gulp.

“You should relax.” Peter suggested, watching the festivities about the room. “Things are… much brighter than before.”

“Must be the candles.” Arthur grunted.

“It’s the mood.” Peter clarified. “I always imagined we were a family of sorts, but tonight… it really feels like it too. It’s wonderful.”

“Indeed.”

Peter pursed his lips together tight, scanning Arthur’s features for a sign. “... You seem upset.”

“Not at all.” Arthur replied in earnest. “I agree with what you’re saying.”

“But…?”

Arthur searched across the sea of heads, briefly waving at a swaying Thomas, then shifted his attention back to Peter. “Where’s Antonio? It’s been a while since I saw him.”

“He’s retired to his room. Must be exhausted after everything that's happened.”

“It’s been quite a drama.” Arthur conceded, polishing off his drink. “In fact I might retire as well.”

“I’ve put your clean bedsheets out already.”

“Thank you.” Arthur smiled and left his seat. “Don’t stay up on account of these drunkards, understand?”

“Of course.” Peter chuckled. “Good night.”

“Goodnight, lad.”

 All around him the dancing and singing continued. Ale splashed high upon the walls, whilst Arthur hobbled to the stairs dreaming of his clean bed, a warm fire, and a decent book to read.

 

* * *

  
  
Elsewhere, Antonio drew a sea salt riddled breath. The cool night’s breeze teased its way through his hair, whilst stars formed patterns in the sky.

Last he recalled he was in the spare room, conducting evening prayer, and now he was here, upon his ship. At first he had his doubts, wondered if the ship belonged to another, but the colourful flags proved otherwise. Even the wood felt right, he decided, weathered and smooth beneath his feet.

Antonio should have worried about the change of scenery, but with the air so calm, so serene, he daren’t question a thing. Perhaps England had never happened. Not the storm, the pirates, or Arthur… all of it must have been a dream, concocted from too much wine, and a wild imagination.

 With careful steps he approach the side of the ship, and ran a hand over the rail. That too was good, _familiar_ , as if the ship itself was welcoming him home. In fact the longer he stood there, the better it became. Everything seemed perfect, until he heard the faint clop of boots, and felt an iron weight form in his stomach.

 “Antonio…?”

 The boots came closer, and closer, before Antonio turned his head. He acknowledged those damn boots, too clean for any sailor, and that long pompous coat with its lacy cuffs. Worst of all he knew that face, sour and long, with a thin pinched nose to match.

_Morales._

 

“You should be resting.” Morales pressed carefully, looking him up and down.

“I want to be out here.” Antonio shot back, and stared across the sea.

“Out where?” Morales asked, cocking a brow. “This is…”

Antonio steeled his nerves, thinking back on the English dream. Morales had put something in his wine that night, before locking him away, and maybe the real Morales would do the same, given the chance.

“Leave me.” Antonio ordered, gripping a hand tight on the rail. “I have not called for a meeting.”

“Antonio-”

“Didn’t you hear me?!” Antonio snapped, letting his temper run wild. “I am the Captain here, not you. Do not disrespect my orders!”

“What’s gotten into you?!” Morales asked, taken aback. “Have you been drinking?”

“Of course not. I won’t touch a drop whilst you’re around.” Antonio hissed. “I know what you have planned.”

“You need sleep.” Morales commanded, reaching forward to grab Antonio’s wrist. “Come, to bed with you-”

_"No!!”_

 

Antonio thrashed wildly in his hold, surprised when his efforts failed. Morales was strong, far stronger than he should have been, and was able to drag Antonio from the side of the ship, towards the cabin across the deck.

Fear shot through his heart as they came dangerously close to the doors. If Morales could manage that, he could manage more. He would send Antonio to the Netherlands without a care in the world, and reclaim him once battered and bruised. When his tongue only spoke of prayer and obedience, and his will reflected the ambitions of the court.

Needless to say, Antonio could not accept such a fate. Nor the flames, the screams, the sheer injustice of it all. He would sooner throw away his status, and take the place of those victims, than witness another brutal display of power.

 

“Release me, _now._ ” He stressed, digging blunt nails into Morales’ wrist. Sure enough it got a reaction, and the moment he loosened his hold Antonio darted back across the ship, towards a bundle of crates.

“ _Antonio, get back!!”_

Antonio shook his head fast, considering his options. If the seas were warmer he could swim for shore, or steal one of the longboats to save the trouble, but with Morales so close there was no doubt he would catch up, and haul him back to the ship.

No matter how he worked it, the solutions were few and far between. Only one seemed remotely promising, but with the right aim and force, Antonio could just about pull it off.

“I’ll give you one last chance.” Antonio spoke up, eyeing the crates. “Leave me, or face the consequences.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Morales sighed. “You’re tired, I understand that, so _please_... get away from there?”

“No.”

“Very well.” Morales settled, moving forward. Unfortunately for him Antonio was faster, alarmingly so, and swiped a crate from the pile to strike Morales round the head.

 Wood splintered, cracked, and with a horrible thump Morales dropped to the floor. Alongside him went the winds, the salty spray, whilst the skies rained small red jewels upon the deck. Surely Morales had been the work of the Devil, not he, Antonio surmised, for when the jewels clattered and rolled he heard a strange, foreign mantra. A chant that echoed over his head, before dragging his body to the deck.

 

* * *

 

“What a disaster…” Arthur sighed, cradling Antonio’s limp form in his arms.  

Contrary to Antonio's belief, there had been no ship, or Morales. The fallen jewels were scattered rosary beads, a victim of his delusions, and the crate was just a chair. Or at least it had been.

 Arthur had only come to say goodnight, when he found Antonio hanging halfway out the window. Heaven forbid what possessed him to do it, but when Arthur came to bring him back inside, like any decent man should, Antonio's temper hit the roof.

 

Furniture was smashed, the bedsheets scattered, and the front of Arthur’s shirt was torn. Arthur nearly lost an eye when Antonio lunged forward, and yet despite all the noise none of his men heard a thing, too busy drinking and wailing like cats in heat.

A decent sleep spell put an end to the battle, but no magic could fully resolve the situation. Antonio’s rage had been sudden, destructive, and there was no telling if it would strike again. Honestly, Arthur was astonished that it had happened in the first place. That docile, compassionate Antonio could flip in an instant, wielding the might of something far beyond their comprehension. 

Nevertheless, things were what they were. Arthur could repair the damage with another spell, and move Antonio without his men suspecting a thing. After that he relied on plain, simple hope, of all things.

A hope that Antonio would awaken his usual, sunny self, and that Morales was still the paranoid, imaginative madman Arthur penned him to be.  

 

 


	6. Topaz

 Very few men dared to enter the tavern’s cellar, fearing whatever lay within. For the most part it was ordinary, a home to wine racks and kegs, but at the far end sat a grand metal door, a place for Arthur alone.

Rumours spoke of prison cells, or a torture chamber beyond, but those who stole a glance knew it was something quite different. A retreat where Arthur stowed books and dangerous artifacts, and practiced his magics in peace.

In short it was his study, and where Arthur chose to hide himself that following morning, frantically sifting through his papers.

 

Curses, chants, rituals... none of the texts could explain Antonio's change of character last night. All signs of possession were absent, and his belongings bore no trace of malicious magic. All Antonio really had to show for himself was a fever, and hours of pained groaning in his sleep.

“Useless…” Arthur grumbled, turning a page with one hand, and holding Antonio's rosary in the other. To his dismay most of the beads had gone missing, lost out the window during their scramble, but the crucifix survived, and its chain could be made anew.

“Captain…?”

“Peter.” Arthur spoke gently, as if coaxing a frightened rabbit. Naturally he was one of the few Arthur trusted to enter his study, and had come armed with a breakfast tray of fruits and ale.

“The crew are still sleeping.” Peter laughed nervously, and stooped his head whilst he set the tray upon Arthur’s desk.

“And what of Antonio?”

“Unchanged.” Peter relayed in a saddened tone. “Sometimes it is as if he speaks, but none of the words make sense.”

“He uses Spanish then.”

Peter shook his head, certain of that much. “Far from it. The sounds are strange, _strained._ I can only wonder what he sees in his sleep.”

“Well keep it that way.” Arthur suggested, closing his book. Beside him Peter kept his posture low, and his shoulders bunched up tight.

“Will that be all?” Peter hoped.

“Stay a moment longer. Please.” Arthur replied. Peter had never been fond of his study, but the boy had to be clear on the situation, and whatever lay before them.

 

“Forgive me. For all of this.” Arthur continued to Peter’s astonishment. “I had hoped to keep last night, and Antonio’s condition, quiet.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

“Oh, but I do.” Arthur sighed next, leaning back in his chair. “I fear I have made a costly mistake-”

“I don’t believe Antonio is possessed. Not for a moment.” Peter interrupted, clenching both fists by his side. “I have no understanding of magic or spirits, nor have I met your otherworldly friends, but I know kindness when I see it.”

“Antonio _is_ kind.” Arthur agreed wholeheartedly. “But that does not change what happened to him. The man is plagued, and will worsen unless we get to the root of the problem.”

“Then go to it.”

Arthur blinked, alarmed by Peter’s response. “You what?”

“Speak with the First mate.” Peter replied with an awkward shrug. “I get the impression he already knows why Antonio is troubled, and whether or not he can be helped.”

“Then we’ve played into his hands...” Arthur realised with a groan. The thought had crossed his mind plenty of times, but until it then it remained a wild assumption. Nothing more. “Very well. I’ll go now.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.” Arthur repeated, gulping down his drink, and plucking an apple from the plate. “Help yourself to the rest. I don’t want it going to waste.”

“But Captain-” Peter grabbed the tray and followed Arthur to the door, eager to escape the study. “What about Antonio?”

“He is to rest as much as possible.” Arthur ordered, briskly leaving the cellar. “And stay within my room, understand?”

“Of course.”

“And give the crew the day off. They may have their fill of the local ‘wares’, provided they don’t bring them back to our tavern.”

“I’ll stay here then.” Peter accepted, smiling. With that comment Arthur slowed his pace, and shot a pitying look from over his shoulder.

“Sorry lad. I’m always relying on you, aren’t I?”

“It’s an honour.” Peter spoke in earnest. When they reached the main room he set the tray upon the bar, and handed Arthur his long, black coat. “Wait here a moment, I’ll find you a pistol-”

“No need.” Arthur cut in, giving Peter’s hair a ruffle. After that he wandered to the door, dressed in yesterday’s clothes and a confident smirk. “A bit of magic will get the prick talking.”

“Very well, best of luck to you.”

“And you.” Arthur chuckled, departing the tavern with a steely resolve, and a bounce in his stride.

 

* * *

  
  
 Albeit used to terrible weather, the recent storm had taken its toll on the English coast. Parts of broken ships were still floating in the water, whilst the rest was washed ashore, protruding from the sand like spikes.

Arthur was not keen on indulging superstitions, but sometimes he wondered if the storm was really a sign. An omen caused by years of bad decisions, and pissing off the Pope. Or perhaps the source was closer to home, one of his brothers in fact, who often sent strong worded letters, and lacklustre curses.

If that were the case Arthur planned to return the favour. No matter how much they disliked him, there was no need to harm several innocents in the process.

 

“Arthur, sir!” Called a sailor from the central docks. He was one of many tasked with monitoring the port, and had been present the night of the storm to aid the foreign merchant ships. Usually he and his peers would be gathered in song by now, awaiting new arrivals, but instead they were busy with cleaning, and tending to the wounded or sick.

“Morning.” Arthur replied, heading to their usual meeting point in the centre. “How goes things?”

The sailor’s face said it all. His gaze turned downwards, his shoulders slumped, but he mustered a smile for the sake of Arthur, and drew a lengthy breath.

“The ones who made it here are well enough.” He relayed quietly. “But many still arrive on the beach. It’s a rotten sight.”

“Survivors?”

The sailor shook his head, and looked across to the shores. Many gulls were gathered about the rocks, squawking and pecking at one another before rummaging through the sands.

“Nothin’ but bloated corpses. The birds want the lot, but we’ve moved them elsewhere. We’re hoping some of them might belong to the surviving ships, in which case we can return them to their men.”

Arthur gave an understanding nod, with both hands shoved firmly in his pockets. Inside one he held Antonio’s crucifix, turning it over and over as if that might help the poor, damned souls.

“Return as many as you can.” He commanded softly. “The rest may be buried here, amongst our own.”

“As you wish.” The sailor obliged with a grateful bow. On that note the sailor thought it best to take his leave, but Arthur’s concentrated gaze had him curious. “Is everything alright, sir?”

“Quite.” Arthur replied simply, scanning the area. “Have we… witnessed any trouble at all?”

“Trouble, sir?”

“From the merchants. Any of ‘em.”

The sailor pondered for a moment, but nothing came to mind. “It is as I said before… all of them are well.”

“I see.”

“Do you suspect trouble?”

“I suspect many things.” Arthur mused, giving the sailor’s shoulder a pat. “But never you mind. I’m old. I think about a great deal more than I should.”

 The sailor understood that much, and picked up the ship register to read. All of the luckier vessels had been successfully logged, and many more were due to arrive in the afternoon, to conduct the usual trade.

“It’ll be another busy day.” He spoke up, changing the subject. “I hear we’ve got cloth on the way. Drink too.”

“That does sound promising.” Arthur agreed, genuinely smiling. In time he caught sight of the ship he needed, the Spanish vessel across the far side of the port. No doubt Morales would be there somewhere, drinking away Arthur’s gold in the luxury of the Captain’s quarters, rather than rotting in the brig where he belonged.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Arthur uttered, and politely took his leave.

 

* * *

  
 Aboard the Spanish vessel, the air turned thick and stale. The flags were still stuffed in their barrels, and the few men Arthur encountered doubled up in fear, as if a single, shaky breath would condemn the lot to Hell.

“What’s going on here?” He asked the next closest sailor, to no avail. Although he spoke it was swift and stammered, a mash of Spanish Arthur had no patience to translate. The only clue he offered was a frantic pointing of his finger to the deck, or whatever lay beneath.

After a handful of failed probes Arthur was ready to give in, until another man surfaced from the shadows of the cabin, marching to Arthur with a stern, icy glare.

“You promised us safety.”

“And I have given it.” Arthur retaliated. “The storm is gone, and my men are in town.”

“Not all of them.”

“What?”

The Spaniard outright ignored his question, to console his companion instead. All the while they talked beneath their breaths Arthur stood with arms folded tight, and tapped a boot repeatedly to the floor.

“I don’t have time for this. Blasted cowards.” Arthur eventually scowled, making his way to the lower deck. As far as he was concerned his men were asleep, and none of the locals were brave or stupid enough to tackle a foreign ship.

 

* * *

  
 Beneath the main deck, the air turned thicker still. The majority of the sailors sat huddled at the dinner tables, much as they had done the night of the storm, and whispered when Arthur came stomping downstairs.

In light of their fear he calmed his feet, but shot them a glare in warning. These were the same men who let Antonio suffer, the same gutless wretches who could not take on Morales to protect their kingdom. Their home.

None of them were worth his time, and none of them resisted when he strode across the ship. All they did was simply watch, and jolted when a strangled yell came from the lower deck, followed by a smash and the clatter of coins.

 

* * *

 

 _“You will pay for this!”_ Shrilled a pathetic man. Morales.

To Arthur’s surprise he was bound to a chair, set amongst the treasures intended for the Dutch. Several candles were placed about him for light, and before him stood a figure in a fine, hooded cloak, twirling a blade in their hand.

“Well I never…” Arthur uttered, creeping down one step at a time. With all his screeching and complaints Morales made it easy for Arthur to enter unnoticed, and for the meantime he took shelter behind some barrels, watching the First Mate squirm.

 From a distance Arthur could spot a few cuts and bruises on his face, whilst the tightness of the ropes were certain to leave a mark. Whoever had done this clearly hated the man as much as he did, and continued to taunt Morales with a wild swing of their weapon.

“I have told you everything I know!” Morales insisted, panic rising in his voice. “You were right about our destination, but the plan has changed!”

Another swipe cut his statement short, and had Morales jolting in his chair. Quickly then a prayer fell from his lips, and he squeezed his eyes shut in sheer terror.

“I-I speak the truth!” He pleaded. “He was taken away!!”

 _“You are a liar!! You have him!”_ Yelled his attacker, after which the room fell to silence. Arthur shuddered with an unexpected chill, and his jaw fell slack. He knew that voice all too well.

It was deeper than he last remembered, grittier too, but it hit his ears like a song from a bygone age. A sweet, yet deadly tune which had him rising to his feet, and Morales screaming even louder than before.

_“There he is!! That’s the man who did it!!”_

Within a second the figure turned, ready to strike. Their hood dropped back in the process, revealing a mass of long dark hair, and a pair of soft green eyes. Their glare was concentrated, fierce, but upon seeing Arthur’s face they recoiled, and nearly dropped their weapon to the floor.

“... _Artur?!_ ”

“ _João_.” Arthur replied, utterly stunned. “... What the hell are you doing here?”

 


	7. Lead

 Amidst the stagnant silence the ship began to groan, burdened by the weight of gold. The candles cast great shadows upon the walls, whilst Arthur and João engaged in a stare off, challenging the other to speak first.

Morales meanwhile sat in his chair redundant, and looked upon both men with scorn. In his opinion Arthur was an arrogant, pain up the arse, whilst João was no more than a spectre. A cruel image too alike to Antonio, and too familiar with Arthur, to be trusted.

“Is this an acquaintance of yours?” He addressed Arthur firmly, gripping the arms of the chair tight. “I find his appearance… most interesting.”

“Indeed.” Arthur kept his answer brief for good measure. Clearly Morales had no idea who -or what- João was, and for everybody’s sake it was best it remained that way.

João on the other hand stood up straight, and felt for the hilt of his weapon. “Artur, I do not like this man.”

“That makes two of us.” Arthur replied. “And just so you know, he doesn’t think very highly of us either.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Well I do!” Morales snapped, earning a disapproving grunt from João. He much preferred the man he witnessed not too long ago, who screeched and writhed in his seat. “You will release me now.”

Arthur took a reluctant step forward. “That we should-”

“Does he speak the truth?” João interrupted, halting Arthur in his stride. “Do you have him?”

“I have a lot of men. A whole crew in fact.” Arthur replied simply.

“You know who I mean.” João warned carefully.

Arthur confirmed as much with a curt nod. He understood well enough what the man was after, but as for why… he could not comprehend. To Arthur’s knowledge João should have been sailing across the East, building upon trade and relations, and yet there he was in a dreary English port, waving his blade and making threats.

“You wish to see him?”

João grimaced. “It’s more of an obligation, than a wish.”

“Then we shall go-”

“I order you to release me!” Morales barked, reminding them of his presence. “Or have you forgotten our deal?!”

“I said I’d keep you safe.” Arthur stated coolly, then gripped hold of João’s upper arm. “I will remove this man from your ship, therefore upholding my promise-”

“That’s not enough!”

“It’ll have to do.” Arthur sighed, dragging João towards the nearby staircase. “I’ll send one of your men down to untie you.”

 

* * *

 

“What the hell were you playing at?!” João complained when they reached the docks. With a hefty jerk he freed his arm, and used both hands to smooth out the fabric of his cloak. “Couldn’t you see I was in the middle of something important?”

“Hello to you too.” Arthur deadpanned, producing the apple from his pocket. His eyes never left João’s as he buffed the fruit against his coat, and before long the man’s face softened, surrendering in full.

“Right… It is good to see you.” João smiled. “And I’m sorry for not writing-”

“As you should be.” Arthur scoffed. “I thought we were on good terms.”

“We are, we are. It’s just that…”

“These are difficult times.” Arthur surmised, then took a bite into the apple. Disease found its way through every crevice, every home. Crops were failing, the weather erratic, and money slipped through their fingers like sand.

Times had always been difficult, and the problems consistent, but until the people learnt to change they would forever make mistakes, and forever be damned.

“You’re coming to see Antonio then?” Arthur asked on that note.

“I thought I made my intentions clear.”

“You have, with a rather shoddy attitude.” Arthur spoke between mouthfuls of fruit. “And remarkable timing I should add. Almost as if you knew he’d be here.”

“Pure luck.” João replied simply. “I had to find him sooner or later.”

Arthur finished the apple with a defeated grumble, and tossed the core to a low flying gull. João’s reasoning, albeit vague, was starting to sound like the beginnings of a brotherly spat, as opposed to a genuine dilemma. To make matters worse he had lost the chance to speak with Morales, a fact which pissed him off above all else.

 

“João, with all due respect, I think you should leave.” Arthur advised. “He’s not in the mood for talking.”

“I know that!” João stressed, visibly wounded. “I know better than anyone what that fool is going through!”

“How? You avoid one another on principle-”

“You’re hardly allies with him yourself _._ ” João countered, throwing up his hands. To that Arthur shot back a weakened glare, and lowered his gaze in shame. Even if his point was frustratingly true, João was not deserving of the blame, or his foul change of mood.

“Forgive me.” He uttered eventually. “Antonio and his men have arrived at a bad time, and with a number of complications.”

“I know.” João repeated. “Those turns of his are peculiar. One moment he’s fine, the next he’s… well...”

“So you’ve seen them too.” Arthur realised. João’s eyes meanwhile shone with sincerity, _sympathy_ , and before long drifted in the direction of the town.

“Only a handful of times.” He clarified in a dull tone. “But I’ve heard of a great many more... Violent, _terrible_ affairs.”

Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat, and followed the line of João’s stare. From the sailors laughing about the docks, to women and children who carried baskets of foods to their homes. “But regarding the cause of his moods… I had need to speak with Morales-”

“Are you that determined to help him?” João jibed. “Come Arthur, you must have better things to do. Let me handle him.”

“No. I want to do it.” Arthur dismissed. “I’m not entirely sure why, but… ever since I found him, I felt like it was right.”

“Then we’d best be on our way.” João concluded, signalling for them to move on. Conventional logic was never Arthur’s strong point, but somewhere in that fantastical head João imagined he had a just cause, and the nerve to see things through.

Perhaps his whimsical ways were precisely what they needed, João mused further, watching silently when Arthur suddenly raised a hand to the air, and moved as if he were stroking a pet.

 

* * *

 

 Antonio’s hand drifted to his chest out of habit, where his rosary should have sat. He curled his fingers slightly, then stretched them, before letting his arm fall slack by his side.

Somehow he had awoken in Arthur’s bed, rather than that of the spare room, and although Peter was reluctant to talk, Antonio’s body explained the situation in full. His temperature had just about settled, and his fingertips throbbed with each breath. Under each nail he found small splinters and dirt. Grim clumps of familiar, reddish brown that crumbled when he dug them out.

“Would you like a drink, or some food perhaps?” Peter offered, leaning in close. From the moment Antonio opened his eyes he had been there beside the bed, sat upon his chair with a mighty, yet endearing resolve. He fluffed the pillows, fetched the wine, did whatever Antonio needed without question.

Quite frankly the boy spoilt him rotten, and no matter what Antonio said he continued his efforts, doing anything and everything to help.

“I can fetch a book. That’d pass the time.” He continued.

“I’m quite alright. Really.” Antonio chuckled softly. “Your company is more than enough.”

“Oh.” Peter replied, misreading the mood entirely. “Am I too much? I am, aren’t I?”

“No, no!”

“Alright.” Peter sat up straight, and puffed out his chest. “Well remember, I’m here if you need me.”

Peter had already said as much several times that afternoon, but Antonio let the matter slide with a soft smile. The boy never meant any harm, and his concerns were much more preferable to that of the frightened glances, and nervous whisperings of the Spanish court.

Whether he realised it or not Peter was brilliant, possessing the right amount of naivety and humour, without becoming overbearing. He was educated, polite, and held no qualms with handling the crew. In a sense he resembled Arthur in his youth, from a time still plagued with troubles, but happier for them both.

“Peter, could we talk?”

“Of course!” The boy exclaimed. “Anything!”

Antonio settled into the pillows with a gentle expression. “Tell me about yourself, please.”

With that Peter’s smile fell flat. “About me…?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” Antonio added.

“N-No, it’s not but-” Peter began to mumble, and clenched both hands in his lap. “There’s not much to say.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“But that’s how it is.” Peter confessed. “I have accomplished nothing of worth-”

“That’s a lie.” Antonio interrupted, pointing an index finger momentarily. “You have earnt Arturo's respect, and that is plenty enough.”

“But-”

“Speak.” Antonio pressed, smiling kindly. “From the beginning, if you will.”

Peter drew a shaky, sharp breath, readying another objection. Truthfully he disliked speaking about himself, of plain, daft Peter, but Antonio’s welcoming stance hushed his tongue altogether, and encouraged him to relax in his chair.

“I only know what Arthur and Thomas have told me, but it started several years ago, one rainy afternoon.”

Antonio gave a soft nod in support, coaxing him to go on.

“Arthur received a warning from one of his brothers the night before, so he drank and drank until he could no longer speak sense.” Peter laughed in recollection, namely Thomas’ rendition of the tale. “The next day there was a terrible storm. Rain battered the port, the seas turned fierce, and yet despite it all Arthur said he had to go out. Thomas tried to stop him, but Arthur refused, insisting he would regret it if he didn’t.”

“Idiota...” Antonio sighed. “He could’ve gotten ill.”

“He got worse.” Peter chuckled. “Instead of a cold, he returned with a baby. Arthur found me dumped in an old crate of straw, and since then he’s raised me like a little brother. When work called him away Thomas would take charge, but every now and then he was able to visit, bringing books and tales from across the seas.”

“Oh…” Antonio nodded keenly. “And did he talk of anything specific? Beyond your lands I mean.”

“He moaned about frogs a lot. Still does.” Peter continued to laugh. “A man named Francis, I think. They’ve been fighting for years.”

“Centuries.” Antonio confirmed, snickering. “But anyone else?”

Peter tried his best to recall something of worth, but only vague details stuck in his mind. “There was a time when I was very little, a couple of years old I think… before our current Queen. Thomas said he was quite different back then.”

“How so?”

“I couldn’t say.” Peter shrugged. “Arthur doesn’t like to dwell on the past. He’s told great stories of Kings and Queens from centuries ago, but whenever I ask questions about the recent line he turns strange. Sad. It’s something myself and the crew aren’t permitted to discuss.”

“I see…” Antonio mumbled, casting his gaze elsewhere. In light of the mood Peter sat patiently waiting, and twiddled his thumbs in apprehension.

“That said, Arthur has been very good to me. All of us.” Peter insisted, grabbing his attention once more. “And whilst he never spoke much of the last hundred years or so… he did write about them.”

Antonio lifted his gaze. “He did...?”

Peter gave an eager nod, and glanced to the desk across the room. “There’s a whole collection of books somewhere, journals he wrote of his travels. I found them one time when he was away, and spent hours reading... Of course he got kinda’ mad when he found out, and I haven’t seen them since.”

Antonio frowned in disbelief. “But why would he hide them? And be angry towards you?”

“It was my fault, in all fairness.” Peter laughed softly. “Turns out the books were more like diaries, than logs, but they were so personal, so _real_ that I became engrossed. For the first time in my life I saw another side of Arthur; a young man who loved to sail, and of a kingdom across the seas. A… Caster- something. I forget.”

Antonio fumbled for his rosary, having forgotten it was gone, then settled for grabbing the front of his shirt. “Castile…?”

“That’s it!” Peter perked up, burning with his usual enthusiasm. “He mentioned it a lot in his writings. Have you ever been there?”

“I- well.” Antonio tripped on his tongue mid speech, whilst fingers fumbled with the laces of his shirt. “I know of it. Somewhat.”

“Oh…”

 

Despite his efforts to remain cheerful, Peter’s face became riddled with disappointment, and he rose from his chair in defeat. “Forgive me, I had hoped you could tell me more. Arthur was awfully fond of the place-”

“Wait, I do have something!” Antonio blurted, scrambling to get his legs out from under the covers. Quickly then he escaped the bed altogether, to join Peter’s side at the window. “It’s a weird story, I guess, but the kingdom isn’t quite what it used to be.”

“It’s gone, isn’t it?” Peter spoke with childlike dismay.

“Not at all.” Antonio replied, smiling bright. “It’s still here.”

“But you said-”

“I said it’s not what it used to be.” Antonio clarified. “A while before any of you were born it unified with its neighbour, the kingdom of Aragon. Since then it’s been referred to under a different name.”

“Aragon…” Peter repeated in wonder. Shortly after his brows began to furrow, and he brought a hand to his chin. “So now it’s… Castgon. Or Arastile?”

“What?” Antonio spluttered.

“That’s how it works, isn’t it?” Peter stated. “You’d have to merge their names together, to keep things fair.”

“That’s not-”

“Arastile sounds better, I think.”

“We’re getting carried away.” Antonio laughed nervously. “All that matters is that it exists, yes?”

Peter agreed with that much, but still his curiosity prevailed. “I should ask one of the others what they think. Thomas might know what it was-”

“It was Castgon!” Antonio snapped without warning, feeling his cheeks prickle with an unfamiliar heat. “I didn’t want to say because you know... you like the other name. Also Arturo might get mad and- Whatever happens, just don’t ask anyone else...  _please?_ ”

“Your face is bright red.” Peter gasped, changing the subject. “Has the fever returned?”

“Maybe.” Antonio replied hastily, turning on his heel. The moment he did however he heard another gasp from Peter, followed by a strange grumbling and a thump against glass.

“Who is that…?”

Antonio turned to look over his shoulder. Peter’s palms were pressed flat to the window, and his face overcome in bewilderment.

 

Down below, amidst the bustle of the street, he could clearly make out that scruff of blond hair. Arthur’s face was aglow in delight, and the man beside him similarly laughed at ease. At first Peter blamed the sunlight, or a trick of the eye, but when the man flicked dark hair from his face Peter recoiled, and glanced to Antonio on instinct.

“He… he looks just like you.”

“Who?” Antonio asked in a low, cautious voice. Carefully then he returned to the window, and upon noticing the same man his mood turned for the worse, and his posture stiffened in disdain.

“What timing…” He growled.

“You know him?”

“Perhaps, but… No. Forgive me.” Antonio shook off his grimace fast, and feigned a weak, pitiful cough. He clutched his shirt for added effect, and barely kept it together when poor Peter resumed his fretting ways.

“You don’t look well.”

“You’re right, I fear the fever has returned.” Antonio faked a weary smile, and slowly clambered back into bed. “I uh… I shall stay and rest. You go see them.”

“Are you certain?” Peter asked. “I could stay here-”

“No, no. Arturo will be expecting you.” Antonio insisted. “But please, tell him to visit when he can. I would like to speak with him alone.”

“Of course.” Peter answered with a respectful bow, then took his leave. On the way out he closed the door behind him, but through the creaking of floorboards and footsteps Antonio could hear the zealous swing of the tavern door, and a rowdy, oblivious Arthur returning home.

 


	8. Onyx

 “Drinks all round!” Arthur proclaimed, bursting through the tavern door. João followed after with a bemused shaking of his head, whilst Peter scurried down the last few steps, and took his place behind the bar.

“Arthur, sir!” Peter gave them each a generous bow. “You look well.”

“I’m fantastic, Peter.” Arthur spoke as if he had already drunken himself into a stupor, but Peter knew he was brimming with merriment, rather than ale. Without delay Arthur assumed his usual stool at the bar, and beckoned for João to sit alongside him. “This here is a great man, an ally and a longstanding friend.”

“You flatter me.” João scoffed, propping his chin in his hand.

“I speak the truth.”

“... And how might I refer to our guest?” Peter inquired carefully. Despite his air of calm, something about João struck him as odd. His eyes, a familiar green, held a flame that betrayed his lazy expression. An ambition which easily rivalled that of Arthur’s.

“Officially? _Império Português._ But you can call me João.” João replied in a sing song tone.

“Império…?” Peter wondered, grabbing two tankards and a bottle of wine.

“The Portuguese Empire.” Arthur clarified with a sense of pride. “And Antonio’s brother.”

“ _Older_ brother.” João added. “But I suspect your boy could determine that much.”

Honestly, Peter had no idea what to think at all. João’s energy certainly resembled Antonio's, but where Antonio spoke with care, consideration, João kept all manners swift, and to the point. His tongue was likewise sharp, precise, and he watched Peter pour the wine with a discerning gaze.

“What a curious sight.” João mused. “Young in age… the same mess of hair, and pale skin… is there something you haven’t told me, Artur?”

“He’s not my son!” Arthur blurted, whilst Peter almost dropped the wine bottle in shock. “Peter’s a lad I took in a long time ago. A little brother, if you will!”

“Alright, alright. Calm yourself.” João snickered. “I merely wondered.”

“You presume I sleep around.” Arthur accused with flushed cheeks. “I am a busy man, with many matters that require my attention. There is no time to... to-"

“To have sex?”

“To father children!” Arthur corrected, ever the prude. “Honestly João, cease your nonsense. You have embarrassed the poor boy enough!”

“I’m quite alright.” Peter insisted, sliding both tankards their way. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, João.”

“And you.” João responded with a gentle nod. For a second he conveyed a glimpse of Antonio’s compassion, before striking it down with a hefty sigh, and a roll of his eyes. “Anyway Artur, why is your tavern so quiet? It’s boring!”

“The crew are out enjoying themselves.” Arthur replied, having collected his nerves. “Boring as it may seem, believe me when I say this is best. We can enjoy a drink in peace.”

João took his reasoning for what it was worth, and washed it down with a few gulps of wine. Not many people would know it, but he rather enjoyed the bustle of such establishments. The music and dancing, and the lovely creatures who saw fit to flash their breasts. Even the men could be quite charming, but that was a story for another day.

“This is good wine.” João praised, gesturing to Peter. “An excellent choice.”

“Thank you.” Peter bowed awkwardly, then glanced to Arthur. As per routine he finished the whole tankard in one, signalled for a refill, and waited for it to be placed in his greedy little hand.

“I think you should take your own advice, Artur.” João spoke in good time. “Wander the streets, explore everything your town has to offer-”

“You’re referring to sex, again?” Arthur deadpanned.

“It would improve your temper.” João snorted.

“It would be stupid. People recognise my face.”

“Just the eyebrows.” João continued to mock. “They’re frighteningly large. Have you been cursed?”

“Never you mind!!”

Peter observed their petty squabble with a fond smile, and set the bottle beside Arthur just in case. João was a brave man indeed, went further than even Thomas dared to, and yet despite it all Arthur seemed genuinely happier since his arrival.

The same could be said for Antonio, who caused Peter to gasp in recollection. “Arthur?”

“Yes lad?”

Peter hesitated, twisting a cloth in his hands “Forgive me if this might ruin the mood, but Antonio wished to see you.”

“He’s awake?” Arthur exclaimed, as if expecting the man to be dead. “How is he?”

“Somewhat unsteady.” Peter confessed, looking to João out of habit. “He uh… he continues to rest in your room.”

“ _Artur_.” João cut in, utterly appalled. “Here I was fretting over your state of mind, only to find you’ve got my wretched little brother in your bed!”

“It’s not like that!” Arthur snapped, polishing off the next tankard with ease. “I told you before, he’s been unwell-”

“I know, I know. It was a joke, you idiot.” João sighed. A quick slap to Arthur’s arm came next, then a shove to get Arthur off his seat. “Now go. Attend to his highness. I imagine he already knows I’m here.”

Which was all the more reason to stay put, Arthur grimaced. The last thing he needed was a lecture, or to be hurled like the poor chair from the spare room. Through the wonders of magic it had been fixed, but still the horrible splintering of wood stuck firm in his mind. The power Antonio possessed when required.

“I... I think he should continue to rest.”

“Come now, you sound like a guilty husband.” João teased. “Just speak to him sweetly, tell him he looks nice. He’ll forgive you.”

Arthur looked taken aback, standing awkwardly beside his stool. “But I have done nothing wrong.”

“You brought me here.” João stated with a wry smile. “I’d wager that’s enough to piss him off.”

 

* * *

 

 Arthur often struggled to admit his failings, but for once he had to stomach the truth. In hindsight he should have spoken with João elsewhere, and returned to the tavern alone.

That said, it was too late to amend the situation. When he approached the top of the stairs he motioned a circle in the air with two fingers, and muttered strange words beneath his breath.

If there were a charm to quell raging Spaniards Arthur would have excelled in it by now, but alas he would have to settle for a silencer. And maybe the sleep spell should things get out of hand.

 

Once fully prepared, or as much as one could be in his circumstance, Arthur cleared his throat loudly, and rapped his knuckles to the bedroom door.

“Antonio? Are you awake?”

No answer came, but Arthur anticipated that much. Out of courtesy he gave the man time to respond, but when a wet cough sounded he narrowed his eyes, and latched hold of the handle fast.

“Antonio, I’m coming in.”

_“W-Wait!”_

Antonio’s reply came far too late. With a confident stride Arthur entered the room, halted, and slammed the door shut behind him in haste. Just one more step and he would have slipped in a splatter of water, or whatever the hell it was.

The stench of bile and blood hit his senses above all else. Similar puddles could be found across the floorboards, the window, and over the bed where Antonio sat trembling. Bloodstains caked his hands and arms, and the bedsheets and his clothes were likewise ruined.

“Arturo I-” He wheezed, then hung his head. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t-!”

“No, no. It’s fine. It’ll be fine!” Arthur stammered, hurrying to his side. The only time he saw nations weakened was upon the battlefield, and whilst he had suffered a cold or two it was nothing compared to whatever Antonio was facing.

To make matters worse Antonio was waist deep in shame, hunched forward with a hand over his mouth. Another wet cough came next, and quickly turned to vomit.

“Shitting hell.” Arthur hissed, making a dash for his desk across the room. He tore the contents of its drawers asunder, and shoved his books aside until he located a box of potions. The ones he kept safe for particular, drastic measures.

Needless to say the timing was appropriate, and without delay he returned to Antonio, brandishing a purple bottle shaped like a pear. “Here, drink some of this.”

Antonio shook his head weakly, and kept his hand over his mouth. “D-Don’t want it.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Arthur exclaimed. “Just trust me, will you?!”

“I don’t need it!”

Arthur begged to differ, watching Antonio hack and dribble behind his hand, then spit the remainder of bile upon the bed. No doubt he was conducting a prayer in his head, but no God nor man would put an end to his condition. Only Arthur with his shoddy attitude, and a suspicious looking beverage.

“Drink, or so help me I will force it down your throat.” Arthur warned, albeit in a weary voice. “You know what I’m capable of.”

 _“¡Métetelo por el culo!”_ Antonio retorted, snatching the bottle regardless. When his coughing fit subsided he took a generous gulp, and just about kept the liquid down to swallow. After that the room fell to silence, and whilst the pungent stench grew stronger, Antonio at least had stilled.

“There.” Arthur breathed, ignoring the earlier insult. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Out of exhaustion Antonio failed to respond, but he managed a raspy breath, looking a sorry state amongst the once clean linens. His fleeting rage had gone as well, Arthur realised, replaced with childlike guilt.

“… I didn’t mean to see you like this.” Antonio pleaded. “I only wanted to talk and-”

“There's nothing to apologise for.” Arthur insisted. Fortunately the far side of the bed had not fallen victim to his fits, and so Arthur coaxed the reluctant man to shuffle over, then draped his coat about his shoulders for warmth.

“You scared the shit out of me.” He confessed, moving some hair from Antonio’s face.

“And me.” Antonio chuckled, struggling to breathe between words. “It has… never been that bad.”

“I should tell the others-”

“No!”

Arthur blinked, taken aback. “But-”

“João doesn’t need to know. Not yet.”

“Ah.” Arthur grunted, staring elsewhere. “So you do know he’s here.”

Antonio replied with a pitiful nod, and tried to bundle up in Arthur’s coat without smearing it with blood. “We saw you both from the window.”

“I’m sorry-”

“You should be. If I were feeling better, I’d have hung you from the window by your ankles.” A cough interrupted that idea, but before long Antonio reverted to a pale smile. “Though about my brother… Do you think he...?”

“I don’t know why he’s here. Not for certain.” Arthur answered in confidence. “But enough of him. I’ll draw you a bath, that’ll make you feel better.”

“But the room-”

“Magic.” Arthur proudly declared, raising both hands. “I’ll have this place fixed before you know it.”

“If only it could fix me as well.” Antonio replied with another shaky laugh, letting Arthur help him onto his feet.

 

* * *

  
 “So he’s really not well.” João murmured, losing himself in another tankard of wine. No matter how much Arthur wished to keep it secret, Antonio’s condition was too severe to hide from his own brother. Whilst Antonio took to stripping off his clothes Arthur had made a hasty retreat, and shot downstairs to relay the situation.

“It was awful.” Arthur whispered. “Blood and vomit and-”

“Enough. Peter might hear.” João hushed, jerking his head towards the kitchen. To that Arthur muttered an apology, and lowered his voice to a minimum.

“We need your help with this. Please. Stay with us for a while.”

“I only came to talk.” João reminded sternly. “I have business of my own to attend-”

“João please. He needs you.”

“ _You_ need me.” João corrected. “Having heard what happened… I think Antonio’s much better off without me. If he pisses me off I can’t promise I won’t strangle him-”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Would too.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Arthur pressed in cool, deep voice. Shortly after he leant in close, and tapped his fist against the bar. “I know what it’s like, having annoying siblings in your life. But you still care for them one way or another.”

“You hate Scotland.”

“And he hates me.” Arthur smirked. “But as for you and Antonio… you have a chance to make peace-”

“Like hell!” João spat, then swiftly shut his mouth.

“Give it time, and all will be well.” Arthur encouraged smoothly whilst pulling back. “I’m going to check Antonio hasn’t fallen head first in the tub. But we can talk more when I return, alright?”

“Whatever. Piss off.” João grumbled. “And keep your dirty hands to yourself, understood? No funny business because he's naked-”

“What do you take me for?!” Arthur gasped, visibly wounded.

“I dunno’.” João grinned. “But he’s my brother, like you said. I gotta’ show a little care once in a while.”

“Apparently so.” Arthur droned, taking that as his cue to leave.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with Gatito so far. Honestly I had no idea how people would receive it, or whether fandom was even alive, but your support has been an incredible driving force, hence you've gotten another update so soon. Hope you enjoyed it (despite Arthur's potty mouth) and look forward to seeing you again soon!


	9. Emerald

 Later that day Arthur observed the town from his bedroom window, watching the people come and go. Some men wandered through the streets at their own pace, or with a friend, whilst others shoved past in a hurry, eager to get on their way.

For centuries Arthur had wondered what it would be like, to live with that sense of urgency. To have a family and a home to return to each night, and to appreciate the years he was given. Instead Arthur had become dull, complacent. He did not rush when he should, because he knew there would always be time. Another year, another decade, to take action.

Across the room Antonio lay content in the metal bathtub, admiring the water with a curious hum. No matter how long he soaked it remained warm, pure, and ran through his fingers like liquid crystal.

“This is incredible…” He muttered loud enough to grab Arthur’s attention. “I’ve never seen water so clear.”

“You can drink it and not become ill.” Arthur mentioned with a small hint of pride. Casually then he brought up a chair beside the tub, and plopped down with a heavy sigh. “My magic could do the same for all water. Prevent a great deal of suffering, and death, but the court won’t permit me to use it on a wider scale.”

“Well it is kind of frightening.” Antonio noted, turning his hand to examine it in awe. “You would be executed for witchcraft.”

Arthur could not disagree with him there, but shrugged the matter off regardless. “At least it’s there for my men if they want it. Peter often drinks it.”

“And you?”

“I prefer the taste of ale.” Arthur laughed, reclining in his seat. He tried his best to keep his eye level appropriate, but every now and then it drifted to Antonio’s chest. Those soft curves which remained above the water, framed by long damp curls of his hair.

“Is everything alright?” Antonio asked in concern. “You seem quiet.”

“I’m tired.” Arthur replied, faking a yawn. “It’s been a busy day.”

“Indeed. You were out a long time.” Antonio agreed with narrowed eyes. “... Where did you go?”

“Nowhere interesting.” Arthur lied. “I had a few errands to sort out in town-”

“And at what point did you find João?”

With one question Arthur’s mood dropped like a stone, and he breathed in deep. He curled his fingers into a fist, then slapped them to his knee. He should have known Antonio would nag about it eventually.

“It was luck. Nothing more.”

“I didn’t ask _how_ you found him.” Antonio clarified. “Only where.”

“Don’t let it bother you. You’re unwell.”

“I’m not a fool, Arturo.” Antonio sighed. “Nor am I a child. Tell me the truth-”

“Antonio please, not now _._ ” Arthur whined. After that he sat forward in his chair, leaning over the tub with an outstretched hand. He only intended to pat Antonio’s head, or flap some of that stupid hair in his face, but when he approached Antonio drew both knees to his chest, and backed away with eyes open wide.

" _Don’t_.”

“Don't what?”

“Just don’t.” Antonio repeated. His reaction was outright ridiculous, and enough to make Arthur laugh, though his hand remained where it was.

“What’s the matter with you?! You stare as if I’m a threat!”

Antonio swallowed a lump in his throat, and wrapped both arms around his knees. His eyes flicked between Arthur’s hand to his face, until the man took the hint, and sat upright with another laboured breath.

“That’s some fine gratitude you’re showing.” Arthur grunted. “Less than an hour ago you were throwing up all over the place, and I saved you. Remember?”

“That doesn’t mean you can touch me as you please.” Antonio shot back with a hardened stare. “Perhaps you have mistaken me for my brother-”

“There is nothing between me and João!” Arthur hissed, raising an index finger firmly. “We have a decent, long history together. We are friends _-_ ”

“I know what you are.” Antonio spat. “Which makes me curious. How did he get here?”

“What do you mean...?”

Antonio’s expression turned stern, and he kept his posture tight. “Our lands are quite far from here. And yet he appears with such timing, such _coincidence_ that I am wondering how he did it.”

“Are you suggesting I had something to do with it?”

“You were gone a long time.” Antonio replied. “With your magics I am certain it would have been possible-”

“Is it always going to be like this?”

“Pardon?”

Arthur’s face darkened. “You heard me.”

 

With a harsh crack Arthur’s chair flew across the room, knocking against the corner of the bed in the process. The collision caused Antonio to wince, and before he knew it Arthur was there in his face. Gripping the edge of the tub with both hands, one either side of Antonio to keep him in place.

“I said, _is it always going to be like this_?” He growled. “All the questions, the comments, the blatant lack of respect for your own brother- _my_ _ally!_ It’s infuriating!”

“Get away from me.” Antonio warned, mustering a glare. In response Arthur only moved in closer, and clutched the tub with such venom that the metal began to creak.

“You forget your place.” Arthur spoke dangerously low. “You forget who removed you from that forsaken ship. Who gave you food and drink, a place to stay!”

“I said I was thankful-”

“Your words mean nothing!” Arthur spat. With that the tub groaned louder, and the waters became somewhat warmer. Not enough to notice at first, but when the metal became hot to touch Antonio backed away from the side of the tub, and he bit his lip in discomfort.

“Arturo, the water-”

“Shut up and listen.”

“But-!”

“ _I_ _said shut up!!_ ” Arthur snapped even louder. For an instant the temperature shot up higher, enough to send Antonio into panic. “Right now you’re in _my_ land, and in my bath of all places. I could boil you alive and there are people in this world who would thank me for it, maybe even pay me for my time!!”

“Y-You wouldn’t.”

Antonio spoke with eyes wide open, and his body refused to move. Arthur’s stare was alight with something fierce, something wicked he had never witnessed in another man, let alone another nation.

The Arthur from long ago, from those happier times, would never have said such cruel things. He might have gotten annoyed, but never resort to such horrific lows. To make matters worse the water became hotter still, as if he might genuinely act on his threat.

 “Arturo…” Antonio croaked out, shaking his head fast. “You wouldn’t do that, not to me. _I know you_ -”

“ _You know fuck all about me!!_ ” Arthur barked, standing up straight. “And if you dare insult me or my guests I will have you back on that ship and to the Dutch before sunset, _do you understand_?!”

“Well, yes- but wait!” Antonio called when Arthur turned on his heel, and marched in the direction of the door. “Forgive me, please. I shouldn’t have been so rude, but I only wanted to know! My mind is clouded and I-”

“There’s some clothes you can borrow in that chest.” Arthur cut in, turning up his nose. “Once you’re dressed go back to the spare room. I don’t want you sleeping in my bed-”

“But Arturo-”

" _MY NAME’S ARTHUR!_ ” Arthur bellowed next at the top of his lungs. His body trembled whilst he gripped the door handle, and his cheeks flared up with his temper. “Just plain, simple Arthur. It's not hard, and there's certainly no fucking fancy sounds on the end of it!!”

 Antonio pressed his back firmly against the tub, and held a hand flat to his chest. From his expression to his posture he resembled an animal wounded during a hunt. Utterly frightened, betrayed, and awaiting the killing blow.

“Of course.” Antonio soon blurted, having gathered some courage. “I’m sorry-”

“Enough. I told you I was tired.” Arthur grumbled and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

 Partway down the stairs, a fierce grief hit Arthur in full. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead in fury, and stopped at the next step to still his breaths.

He could not remember the last time someone pushed him that far. Infuriated him to the point that his magics almost acted on his behalf. A little more and the water really would have started to boil, and after that-

No. Arthur did not want to think on it. It was bad enough knowing that he had lost control.

That said, he also considered himself lucky. Antonio was a good man, and had likely received plenty of threats in his time. By tomorrow they would be speaking as usual, joking about Thomas’s poor attempts to seduce women, and wondering who would be next to point a blade at Morales.

Yes, everything would be fine, he reasoned, treading the last five steps with care.

 

* * *

 

“Arthur, you’re here!” Peter called when Arthur entered the kitchen. Albeit an obvious statement Arthur burst into a warm smile, and paced over to the counter where he and João were working.

“You’re having cooking lessons?”

“Of course!” Peter beamed. “João and Antonio are both incredibly good, it would be a waste to not learn from them!”

“I am the best though.” João snorted, waving a knife without care. “Honestly I’ve told the boy plenty of times, but still he treats us as equals.”

“I see.” Arthur’s facade slipped for a moment, and he spoke with a sullen tone. “Well, I’d best not bother you-”

“Is something the matter?” João asked, arching a brow. To that Peter’s eyes grew wide, and he examined Arthur’s face for any signs of illness.

“No, no. Not at all.” Arthur lied, and stretched both arms above his head. “Dealing with that blasted Morales has worn me out.”

“And Antonio?” João added warily. “What of him?”

“Fine, fine.” Arthur insisted. “Though I wouldn’t approach him just yet. His condition is… rather poor. I’ve told him to rest up a little longer.”

João gave a firm nod in approval, which Peter mimicked in an innocent fashion. “We’ll leave him be then. We’re busy enough with dinner as it is.”

“Thank you.” Arthur replied sincerely, and returned to the door. “I’m going out to clear my head, and probably drink a few ales with the crew. I’ll be back later on tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get too drunk.”

Arthur laughed through his nose, and left it at that. Even if it filled him with a horrible sense of guilt, he knew it was best for Antonio to be alone. He too needed a moment to think, and João did not deserve to face the same pointless interrogations. The nagging and accusations.

 

* * *

 

 “What a guy.” João scoffed once Arthur had left the tavern. Without delay he then resumed his business, whilst Peter watched in sheer admiration, longing to chop a single carrot so fast.

“Arthur is wonderful.” Peter agreed wholeheartedly. “Your brother too, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I don’t.” João laughed. “So as long as you remember I’m the best.”

“But you’re both good at different things.”

“True.” João conceded, still smiling. Antonio was better at getting his own way, what with those pretty little eyes, and his glorious smile. With his own looks João could probably achieve the same, but alas he was too lazy to try. Blades and pistols were a much swifter, efficient method, and left him feeling high on the adrenaline of it all.

Antonio was also quite gentle in comparison, and plucked the strings of instruments with care. When it came to food he chopped with slow precision, whilst João cut through everything like a madman, eager to get the job done.

“Mister João?”

“Just João.” João stressed, finding Peter’s politeness rather awkward. “And what is it, kid?”

“Well…” Peter shifted from foot to foot, and clasped his hands behind his back. “I was wondering if you knew about a place called Castgon?”

João wrinkled his nose, half distracted with dinner preparations. “Where the fuck is that?”

Peter simply shrugged. “I don’t know. But you’ve heard of it?”

“Never.” João frowned. “Is it a city?”

“It’s a kingdom.” Peter spoke with pride, puffing up his chest. For once he knew something an adult did not. “It used to be two separate kingdoms, Castile and Aragon, but then-”

“Hold it.”

To Peter’s surprise João slapped his knife to counter, and covered his mouth with a hand. The poor boy did not deserve to be mocked, and yet João could not help but ripple with laughter, giggling until his eyes began to water.

“W-Who…” He started, struggling to breathe. “Who the hell told you it was called that?!”

“Is it Arastile?” Peter asked. “I’m sure it is. I knew that sounded better.”

João shook his head, and once calm he gave Peter’s hair a zealous ruffle. “No, no. Not that either… I’m guessing Artur told you that for fun.”

“No, it wasn’t him-”

“Whatever. Let me educate you properly.” João commanded, standing up straight. “It all started with two kingdoms-”

“Aragon and Castile.” Peter interrupted. “They united to form one kingdom.”

“Okay, that kind of ruined my story.” João deadpanned. “But anyway, you're right. As for the kingdom... well, that happens to be my brother."

“ _Your brother?!_ ” Peter took a step back in alarm, having to grab onto the counter for support. “Y-You have another one?!”

“No! Just the idiot upstairs.” João shook his head once more, pitying the unfortunate lad. Clearly Arthur had not thought to teach him about the world, and if he did it was stuffed full of lies. “The kingdom became known as Spain, or however you say it in English.”

“B-But…!”

João reached out to steady Peter, who’s face had turned a vivid red. His speech became stuttered, _flustered_ , and he stared to the ceiling on instinct. When João managed to ease his nerves Peter then recalled the tale of Arthur’s journals, the sea voyages and adventures, and of the kingdom across the sea.

All the while he spoke João listened with the utmost patience. He waited until Peter was finished before exhaling, and flashed a warm, cosy smile once complete.

“He really is something, your captain.”

“Isn’t he?” Peter replied. “But still, to think that he was writing about Antonio- his lands _at least…_ I can’t believe it.”

“Artur and Antonio were quite close, not too long ago.” João explained. “Nothing more than friends, but… I think there was something that could have been between them. Something closer.”

“D-Do you mean... _love_?” Peter asked, whispering the final word as if it were naughty.

“Maybe, maybe not.” João shrugged. “But I know Antonio cares for him a lot. They’ve been through some hard times, but at the end of it all, Artur’s the one man who has shown him kindness, the one man he can trust.”

“And yet this is the first time I’ve heard of Antonio, let alone meet him.” Peter replied, blinking. “How has Antonio managed all by himself, if he likes Arthur that much?”

“It’s called faith.”

On cue João reached down the front of his shirt, brandishing his rosary. From the crucifix to the beads it was identical to Antonio’s, and so precious that João cradled it in one hand, and ran a fingertip over the metal with the other.

“It’s a silly story, but… Antonio’s always believed that he and Artur would reunite in time, if God allowed it. Whether it be ten years, fifty, or a hundred. He’s never stopped hoping for that chance.”

“And he got it.” Peter muttered in awe. “He must have been so relieved to wake up here. With him.”

“I guess.” João shrugged. “Though as much as I like Artur… I don’t get what my brother sees in that respect. He’s the scruffiest bastard I’ve ever met.”

“I think it’s lovely. They seem like a good match.”

“In a way, yes.” João scoffed, then tucked his rosary back in place. Quickly then he grabbed his knife, and clenched his free hand into a fist. “But anyway lad, let’s get cooking. This dinner’s not going to make itself!”

“Yes sir!” Peter beamed, plucking up his knife with glee.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't spell Spain without pain, aaay.


	10. Galena

 The evening played on like most across the English coast; full of drink, companionship, and the backdrop of heavy rain. The change in weather was so abrupt that many feared the storm had returned, but in the presence of ale all was quickly forgotten. The singing and dancing prevailed.

For Arthur the story was somewhat different, however. Despite his promises to João he drank long through the afternoon, and into the early evening. He spoke unkindly to the boy who crashed into him along the streets, and worse to the owners of the final tavern he visited. The idiots who reckoned he had drunk his fair share for the day, and should get himself home before dark.

Their behaviour reminded him of Scotland, who often laughed about alcohol, and its power over the mind. He said it was both a poison and a cure, a remedy that turned all good men into monsters. Murderers. Cheats.

And yet, for all his unwanted wisdom, Scotland failed to address one thing: If the man were already a monster, what then? What harm could another drink do?

 

“Here we are.” Thomas’s voice broke Arthur from his thoughts. With apt timing he set a hefty tankard upon the table, which Arthur regarded with a lazy smile.

“Cheers.”

“The pleasure’s mine.” Thomas insisted, taking his seat at the table. The majority of the crew were seated as well, ready to feast, save for Peter and a few others who helped João in the kitchen. “You spoil us yet again.”

Arthur cocked a brow, until Thomas jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. Beyond the open door they got a good view of João, who passed Peter two bowls and waved him off.

“You never mentioned he had a brother.” Thomas continued. “So alike and yet… not?”

“João is different.” Arthur stated matter of factly.

“And our ally, unless my memory is shite?”

“Your memory is perfect.” Arthur smirked. “Though we’ve had our disagreements, Portugal is one land I know we can depend on. The man himself is brave, intelligent, and strong.”

“And brilliant at cookin’. Which sounds fine by me.” Thomas laughed. Arthur raised his tankard to that, and revelled in the first taste upon his lips. It gave him comfort and courage all in one, and helped him see things for what they were. To recognise what a damned, stupid fool he had become.

 

 Regardless of the crew’s admiration for Antonio, he should never had made a deal with Morales. Antonio was uncontrollable, doomed, and no one would be safe in his presence. In fact Peter had already become victim to his charms, that false sense of kindness, and Arthur believed it was his duty to set the matter right.

“You seem distracted.” Thomas intervened carefully. “Need to talk?”

“I need more than that.” Arthur snorted. For a moment he recalled João’s earlier teasing and broke into a wry, drunken smile. “Y’know. João reckons I should… get a taste of the town.”

“You mean drink?”

Arthur shook his head slowly, and soon Thomas’s smirk matched his own.

“You mean women.” Thomas corrected.

“Or men.” Arthur spluttered as he laughed, and wiped his chin with his sleeve. “I don’t mind which it is, provided they’re pleasant to look at, and they do the job well.”

“Goodness me...” Thomas raised both brows. “How bold you have become, Captain.”

“You disapprove?”

Thomas did not seem to care either way, and furrowed his brows. “But what of your pretty little thing upstairs? Does he know of your plans?”

“What should that matter?” Arthur retorted, visibly wounded. “He does not own me!”

“Nah, but I figured you were close.” Thomas shrugged simply, and stared across the tavern. “... We all did.”

“We think many things, Thomas.” Arthur replied, thanking Peter when he set down his dinner. “But I reckon it would be best if we didn’t think at all. Just get pissed, swing our swords, and say fuck it to the whole charade!”

“... Right.”

Thomas was not sure what to make of this daring, rowdier Arthur, and his sudden lack of consideration for Antonio. It seemed downright bizarre and unprovoked, but before he could question it Peter and João returned, and sat themselves on the opposite side of the table.

As everyone became settled the noise begun to rise, and men ate without hesitation or manners. The music in turn grew louder, creating a perfect veil for the group to talk.

“What d’you think?” João addressed Thomas and Arthur specifically. “Is the food to your liking, good sirs?”

“Tastes fuckin’ lovely.” Thomas answered, stuffing his cheeks with food. Beside him Arthur ate with the same lack of dignity, and hummed loudly in approval.

“You exceed yourself yet again, João!”

“This is the first time I’ve cooked for you.” João reminded him. “But who knows, maybe I’ll do so again tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait.”

Soon enough Thomas, Peter, Arthur and João burst into merry laughter. A joy much brighter than that of last night, and certainly better than the one before.

Unlike Antonio, João’s behaviour seemed natural, honest to a fault. He held no qualms with speaking his mind, or expressing anger if the situation called for it. As a result João earnt the crew’s wholehearted respect, all without resorting to courteous speech, and a sickening air of innocence.

Indeed, thanks to him Arthur had begun to enjoy himself, until he spied a length of red fabric lurking by the stairs. It moved like a blur in the corner of his eye, and from beneath its folds Antonio poked out his head, then made a swift bid for the kitchen.

“Please excuse me.” Arthur spoke up, rising from the table. He managed a calm front in the presence of João and his companions, but inside he crashed and roared like a wildfire. Offended by Antonio’s artful escape.

 

* * *

 

  
  
 “So you’ve decided to show your face.” Arthur kept his conversation brief, and to the point. He closed the kitchen door behind him for good measure, and upon hearing the click Antonio turned on his heel, greeting him with a heavy sigh.

“Yes Arthur. I get hungry like anybody else.”

“Don’t speak to me like that.” Arthur warned, marching forward. He came far too close for Antonio’s liking, only stopping when the air stank of rotten ale, and left a bitter taste on Antonio’s tongue.

“You’ve been drinking.” He grimaced, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m _drunk_.” Arthur corrected, throwing up his hands. “But who gives a damn about that, hmm? This is my home, after all.”

Antonio could not argue even if he wanted to, and returned his attention to the kitchen counter. After a few hours of reflection, Antonio had hoped Arthur’s mood would improve, but apparently he had turned to the bottle for advice, and now he lacked the patience for reason.

“I’ll take my dinner upstairs.” Antonio explained in time, dishing some stew into a wooden bowl. “That way I won’t interrupt-”

“Why’re you wearing that thing?”

Antonio peered over his shoulder in bewilderment. “... What thing?”

“ _That_.” Arthur stressed, jabbing an index finger to the cloak. “You have some nerve displaying it here, in front of us. Are you trying to make a statement?!”

“I’m cold, you stupid bastard.” Antonio huffed, and pulled the cloak tighter about his shoulders. “Some of us aren’t used to this weather-”

“It’s about João, isn’t it?” Arthur pressed, moving in again when Antonio faced him with bowl to hand. “Knowing he’s here must be _awful_ for you, but that’s not an excuse to shove your fucking status in everybody’s face-”

“It’s a cloak _,_ not a political weapon.” Antonio deadpanned, finding Arthur's behaviour annoying, rather than intimidating. “Now piss off, you miserable goblin.”

“ _No_.” Arthur replied in a steely tone. “You’re eating with us.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.” Antonio countered. Through some miracle Arthur refrained from yelling at the top of his lungs, and seized Antonio’s free wrist instead. Squeezing and digging with blunt fingernails until Antonio showed signs of pain.

“You will do as you’re bloody well told.” Arthur hissed. “Or so help me I will take you back to your shitty first mate.”

“You said you were going to help me-” Antonio whispered, inhaling sharp when Arthur’s grip tightened. “You made Morales a deal.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Arthur jeered, having forgotten the consequences of their deal in question. “You can stay a few more days, just to make it seem like we tried, and then you’ll be returned to your ship.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Antonio sighed. “Let’s discuss this in the morning, when you’ve cleared your head.”

Arthur’s eyes turned narrow. Severe. Antonio was far too confident, authoritative, for his liking. In fact ever since their argument Arthur’s opinion of the man had changed, and not for the better. All which seemed good about Antonio had become, sinister, corrupt, and to Arthur it appeared he was no more than a curse. A hex sent to ruin his land.

“ _You_...” Arthur scowled, giving his wrist another harsh squeeze. “You will dine with us whether you like it or not, do you understand?”

“You leave me with no choice.” Antonio stated, rolling his eyes when Arthur dragged him to the door with a huff. Before they opened it however Arthur made one final, abrupt stop, released his wrist, and eyed the red cloak with scorn.

“Make sure you leave that thing here.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 By the time Arthur emerged from the kitchen he was all smiles and laughs, striding back to his place. A cloak-less Antonio followed out with a subdued show of cheer, and when he reached the table he remained standing, glancing to the last empty chair.

It had to be next to João of all places, and opposite Arthur, whom raised his brows in subtle warning.

“Won’t you join us...?” Arthur pressed, waving a hand to the chair. “It’s not taken.”

“I-”

“Go on.” João cut him off with an unusual, gentle expression. Antonio had expected him to be grumpy, as he often was, but instead he pulled out the chair, and gave a firm, approving nod. “It’s been a long time, brother.”

“That it has.” Antonio agreed, uncertain what to make of his behaviour. Not to say that João was bad, but Antonio had given him plenty of reasons to complain, or treat him with discontent. “Though it’s rather strange, meeting here of all places-”

“I disagree.” Arthur interjected, propping his chin in his hand. “João’s our ally. He has every right to be here.”

 _Unlike you,_ said the cold glint in his eyes. Despite his best efforts to intimidate Antonio remained ever resilient, placed his bowl upon the table, then got settled in his chair. He wasted no time in starting his dinner, humming softly from the very first spoonful.

“This is…” He blinked in wonder, gawking at the spoon, then João. “You used to cook this for us, when the weather turned cold.”

“So you remembered.” João replied, mildly impressed. “But I’m afraid I made this one kinda’ quick, and with fewer ingredients. I doubt it’s as good.”

“Nhm.” Antonio shook his head briskly, swallowing another mouthful. “I like it.”

“Really…?” João hesitated, and turned to examine his own meal. He could not recall the last time they had spoken without falling into a petty argument, and yet somehow there they were, engaging in a small, but civil conversation.   

For them it was a monumental jump in their relationship, but to Arthur it was a dagger in his side. Antonio was nothing short of a hypocrite, acting sweet when he had complained of his brother’s arrival, and to make matters worse João had fallen for his trick. He gladly went to the bar to fetch them wine, and upon his return proposed a small, humorous toast. _To an unlikely reunion, and a half decent dinner._

“To the brothers.” Thomas added, grinning wide, whilst Arthur slowly raised his tankard to his lips, refusing to participate.

After all, brothers were wretched, wicked souls. Brothers stabbed you in the back, in every sense of the phrase, and he knew it would not be long before Antonio likewise turned, and brought ruin to João as well.

 


	11. Amethyst

 For as long as Arthur could remember magic had existed in his life. From the fairies to the wisps, the hexes and the cures, all had been present in his land. Magic users however were few and far between, for anyone who dared to expose themselves were killed.  

Even amongst nations such wielders were rare, but they existed, and they all agreed on one significant view: That whether a land could use magic or not, all possessed a spirit. An energy utterly unique to their strength.

For example, Francis bore an overbearing, complicated aura. Like a fussy, flavourful wine. One moment he chose to be incredible, strong, and in the next he would be ground under Arthur’s heel, like the incompetent fool that he was.

On the other hand there was the likes of João, who embodied a sense of water. His energy was simpler, _pure_ , but downright raw and powerful as well. It could take life as easily as it gave it, a perfect reflection of his status as an empire.

Many moons ago Antonio embodied a similar ambience, but in recent years it grew tremendous, fierce. His energy was potent, _dangerous_ , and it threw Arthur relentlessly across the line of love and hate. Sometimes he wanted to strangle the bastard for his existence, whilst other times he wanted to kiss him. Devour him entirely.

Quite frankly the man drove him mad, and the longer Arthur watched him from across the room, the more his stomach bound up in knots. His hand refused to hold his tankard steady, and his mind became so numb that he barely heard Peter calling his name, or recognised his face as he leant across the bar.

“Arthur, sir.” He repeated loudly. “Would you like another ale?”

Arthur shook out of his trance with a jolt. All of a sudden the room flared to life, louder and brighter than ever, and his lungs grasped for air as if he had been submerged beneath deep waters.

“What the devil-” He turned his head left and right, then to Peter. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.” Peter informed, nodding to the clock behind the bar. “You’ve been talking to yourself for a while.”

“I see.”  Arthur replied, too dazed to properly understand his words. “Right. I suppose I should get on.”

“Get on with what?”

“Business.” Arthur spoke firmly, and gestured to a dark, heavy curtain in the corner of the room. Beyond there was a place reserved for Arthur alone, where he drank in perfect isolation, away from the madness of the crew.

“Ah. Of course.” Peter nodded, and removed his dirty tankard. “And your drink?”

Arthur pursed his lips, searching the back of the bar. He needed something strong and unforgiving. A drink he reserved for the most dire of situations.

“Whiskey.” He decided. “And plenty of it.”

To that Peter raised his brows, and prepared himself for the worst. Everytime Arthur drunk whiskey it made him emotional, or ill. Sometimes he would cry about past battles, or attempt to write Francis rude letters, and on rare occasions it had him grinning like a madman, craving a ship raid or war.

“Very well.” Peter agreed nonetheless, fetching the keys from the back of the bar. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Yes.” Arthur grunted as he rose from his seat, and staggered his way towards the curtain. “Just one more thing.”

 

* * *

 

 Antonio was utterly confused.

Minutes ago he had been listening to João’s adventures, and in the next he was hauled to his feet by Thomas, and taken upstairs to Arthur’s room. Once there he was stripped and dumped in a newly drawn bath, and left to the whims of Peter and João, who clicked his tongue in utmost disapproval.

“I thought you’d already washed.” He stated, examining one of Antonio’s hands. “Your nails are filthy.”

“They’re fine!” Antonio shot back, and snatched his hand away. In the meantime Peter searched through a box of small bottles, whilst João pulled up a stool beside the bath, and gestured for Antonio’s hand.

“To think the Spanish Empire can’t even clean himself properly…” João sighed and shook his head. “Fucking ridiculous.”

“I could say the same to you.” Antonio countered for the sake of his pride. “What the hell are we doing up here?”

“You’re bathing. I’m helping.” João deadpanned, cleaning his nails with a small wooden pick. Needless to say his answer was useless, and when Peter returned with a small vial of liquid he only made the situation worse.

“Please don’t worry.” Peter insisted calmly. Carefully then he poured some of the liquid onto a cloth, and lathered it against Antonio’s arm. “You should be happy.”

“I suppose I should.” Antonio replied, hissing when João purposely stabbed him with the pick. “But I’m confused. Why am I having another bath?”

“Because you must.” Peter answered, and carried on cleaning his arm. At the very least the liquid smelt nice, a soft concoction of flowers and spices, even if it failed to explain his predicament. Without a care in the world the boy continued to scrub his shoulders and back, whilst João dumped his hand into the water, and proceeded to sort the next one with a low, deep grumble.

“You should always be prepared.” João spoke kinder then, and slowed down his ruthless cleaning. After that he cracked a laugh, which bothered Antonio most of all.

“Prepared for what...?”

For a second Peter stopped his movements, blinking fast, whereas João looked upon his brother with pity, and gently set his hand into the water.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was.” Antonio stressed, bringing the same hand to his chest out of habit. “Did I… offend you or something? I honestly thought I’d washed properly but-”

“You smell fine. Better thanks to him.” João snickered, nodding to Peter in turn. “The point is… well-”

“ _Tell me.”_

“I’ll leave you two be.” Peter quickly excused himself, and scurried out of the room. That in itself was suspicious, but Antonio ignored it and took up his cloth, proceeding to finish off the job. Upon doing so João swiftly stopped what he was doing, and smirked hard Antonio’s way.

“You’re far too innocent for your own good. You know that?”

“Apparently so.” Antonio grumbled, turning the other way. “Now will you tell me what’s going on, or what?”

“I really thought it was obvious.” João sighed. “Artur’s requested to see you.”

Antonio almost dropped the cloth altogether, and stared back with overblown eyes. “You what…?”

João shrugged, and folded both arms across his chest. “I don’t know the details myself, but according to Peter Artur wants to see you alone. You’ll be joining him behind the curtain tonight.”

Antonio grimaced, recalling the dreaded thing. During the big clean of the tavern it was the one place he avoided on principle, and for a very good reason at that. Something about the corner felt eerie, _intense_ , and when he asked Peter what lay behind the boy merely shook his head, and begged him to speak of it no more.

“Brilliant.” Antonio grunted, slapping his cloth into the water. “It appears I have been summoned like a dog.”

“Come now, Artur thinks highly of you.”

“No he doesn’t!” Antonio protested. “Didn’t you see how he looked at me during dinner?! And the way he _spoke-_ ”

“That was then. This is now.” João pressed firmly. “The point is you must honour his request.”

“I will honour nothing.” Antonio scowled. “Arthur’s a vile, alcoholic fool, and I have no desire to spend a minute in his company.”

“You know that isn’t true.” João finished with a sigh, and rose from his seat. He paced about the room with an unreadable expression, and gently sifted through the clothes left for Antonio upon the bed. “He likes you. Much as you like him.”

“I-”

“Don’t deny it.”

“… Bastard.” Antonio bit his lower lip, defeated. Even if Arthur had been cruel, and continued to treat him unkindly, a part of him forgave his actions. He believed his Arthur was in there somewhere, and that maybe, just maybe, he would take back all threats of returning him to Morales. “... What do you suppose he wants from me?”

“I dunno’.” João answered truthfully. He passed Antonio a large cloth to dry himself, and kept his back turned when he climbed out of the bath. “But I don’t think you should worry, whatever it is. I trust Artur.”

“Of course you do. You’re allies.”

“I’d trust him even if we weren’t.” João added, rolling his eyes. “He’s a good man. Strong and reliable, and I know he’ll treat you well.”

“You know nothing.” Antonio scoffed from somewhere behind him, then waddled over to the bed with a dry, forced smile. “... I’m beginning to understand how our women feel.”

“What d’you mean?”

Antonio ignored his brother outright, focusing on a small leather bag beside the clothes. Inside it he found a chain of rubies set in gold, a handful of matching rings, amongst other priceless gems.

“I’ve known many remarkable women in my court.” He explained, turning a ring in his hand. “Some play several instruments, others speak multiple languages, but in the end they’re all treated the same. Their family dress them up like prized possessions, and throw them to the wealthiest man they can find. All for the sake of improving their own position.”

“This isn’t the same. Not at all.” João insisted, shaking his head in dismay. “I’m sure Artur just wants to apologise for... whatever it is you claim he has done.”

“We shall find out soon enough.” Antonio decided, and placed the ring back inside its bag.

  


* * *

 

 When the brothers returned to the main room all fell to silence, save for Thomas who whistled in awe. João was quite lovely whatever he wore, but Antonio’s new attire was considerably impressive, befitting of whatever an empire should be.

“Fuck me.” He gasped, blurting an apology when Antonio approached. Try as he might to make eye contact, Thomas found himself staring downwards instead, starting with Antonio’s boots. “They’re so…”

 _Long._ He tried to say, following them all the way to the middle of Antonio’s thighs. Once there he noticed his breeches, made of a supple, pleasing black leather, which left nothing to Thomas’s small imagination. Antonio’s shirt was bright white, clean, and unlaced to reveal his lovely tan collarbone, and the chain of rubies about his neck.

With some effort Thomas then paid attention to the coat. A grand tailored piece made of a heavy black material, and adorned with gold embroidery.

“Incredible, don’t you think?” João interrupted, slapping Antonio’s back with a hearty laugh. “It’s amazing what a decent set of clothes can do.”

“Y-You don’t say.” Thomas stammered. This was the first time he had seen the man dressed according to his status, and in all honesty he thought it was wonderful. Much better than the plain, baggy clothes Antonio preferred to live in since he arrived at their tavern. “Anyway, you should, um…”

“I know where he is.” Antonio stated, marching in the direction of the curtain. In a bold display of courage he threw the damn thing open, and once through Peter quickly tugged it shut, as if afraid of what might escape.

“He’s brave.” Peter breathed, astounded. “I-I would never…”

“I suspect that’s why he was chosen.” João surmised, trying to lighten to mood. “But anyway, let’s get back to my stories.”

  


* * *

  


 The instant the curtain drew shut, Antonio let out a yelp in surprise. His feet came to an abrupt stop, and he pulled his coat in front of his eyes.

The private room, for lack of a better name, was alarmingly lavish, _bright_. Mounds of gold, silver and gems were piled high against the farthest wall, and in the candlelight they seemed to glow like wildfire, almost blinding Antonio when he entered.

On the far right hand side Antonio found a simple wooden table and chairs, alongside a bored looking Arthur, who cradled a bottle to his chest. Evidently the man had been waiting some time, but when he caught sight of Antonio he jumped up to his feet, and slammed the bottle to the table in haste.

“You actually came.” He remarked, looking Antonio up and down. “And with those clothes-”

“I had no choice.” Antonio sighed, masking his nerves. He examined the table to avoid making eye contact, and when he lifted his gaze Arthur was there, stood before him with an intense, longing stare.

“They suit you.” Arthur breathed, finding himself at a loss for words. For an instant he resembled sober, clumsy Arthur, and it was enough to have Antonio drop his guard. He pursed his lips into a thin tight line, and jumped when Arthur seized his hand in his own, and ran a thumb over his skin in awe.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

“You mean… this isn’t it?” Antonio dreaded, looking about the room. Rather than respond Arthur gave his hand a quick pull, guiding him along to the left hand wall. From there he drew back a second curtain, revealing a set of small, wooden stairs.

It was hard to tell what resided at the very bottom, but the light and heat wafting up from the depths did little to ease Antonio’s concerns.

“Come along.” Arthur beckoned softly, coaxing a wide eyed Antonio to move. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Oooh no.” Antonio laughed anxiously, planting both feet firmly upon the ground. “I am not liking that idea. Let's stay here.”

“Here?” Arthur asked, taken aback. “No. Here is no good.”

“Arthur, I insist-”

“ _Obedio.”_ Arthur commanded, watching Antonio's eyes glaze over like frost. His hand became cold to touch, and when Arthur waved his free hand before his face no flicker of emotion came.

“Goodness me... It worked.” Arthur gasped, clicking his fingers loudly for good measure. It was a big risk to say the least, performing a possession spell without preparation, but somehow his gamble paid off. Instead of fussing and complaining Antonio now complied with his every word, following him slowly down the stairs.

Truth be told Arthur rather liked sweet, obedient Antonio, and how he blindly held Arthur’s arm for support. The only pity was that no one had been present to witness his achievement, nor would Antonio ever recall it.

 


	12. Agate

 Antonio awoke to the gentle crackling of fire, and its welcome, forgiving heat. All around him the room was in darkness, save for the impressive fireplace before him, which lit up the pit of large, plush cushions he lay within.

In any other circumstance he would have thought the scenario pleasant, but as he laid eyes upon Arthur beside him, sprawled across the cushions fast asleep, he sat up, and clenched both fists tight in his lap. He could not recall how he arrived in the room, or how they had fallen asleep, but he knew it was all down to Arthur, and a strange energy that stirred in his upper body.

Intrigued by his find Antonio slipped his coat off quietly, and tugged open the laces of his shirt. The heat, whatever it was, seemed to pulsate and ripple beneath his skin, and dance whenever his fingers came close.

“Strange…” He murmured, tracing patterns with a single fingertip. Antonio supposed he should be afraid, but his body and mind had betrayed him many times as of late. It hurt him, confused him, and sometimes refused to listen altogether.

So as long as the sensation remained unpleasant he would let it be, he decided, feeling around his breast until a sharp breath pricked his ears. Undoubtedly it belonged to Arthur, who lay flustered, wide eyed, and anything but asleep. His eyes wavered from Antonio’s face, to the hand caressing his chest, and never left their mark as he swallowed hard.

“... What are you doing?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Antonio explained with an air of grace. To Arthur’s dismay his hand left his body, and he laced up his shirt slowly, calmly, as if his behaviour were perfectly ordinary.

“R-Right.” Arthur scrambled to sit up, and wiped a hand across his forehead. The room had grown hotter since he awakened, and whilst he wished to blame it on the fireplace, or the alcohol in his veins, he blamed another fire altogether. A desire which persistently made itself known, no matter how hard he tried to dislike Antonio.

“I’m surprised you’re still here.” He spoke up, disappointed to see Antonio’s shirt laced higher than ever before. “All things considered, I thought you might try to leave.”

“You and I both know that is impossible.” Antonio replied, staring into the roaring flames ahead. “I suspect there is magic set in place to prevent my escape.”

Arthur pulled a sour face, becoming increasingly bothered by Antonio’s composure. Anyone else would have screamed and hit him by now, or succumbed to him in fright, but all Antonio did was lay down, and nestle into the cushions when content.

“I would like a drink.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Of course you do.” Antonio stated. “You cannot survive without it. Much as you cannot survive without your beloved magic.”

The truth bit harder than Arthur cared to admit, and he rose to his feet with a snarl. Within the darkness he found the crate of whiskey Peter graciously provided, brought it back to the pit of cushions, and shoved a bottle Antonio’s way.

“This is all I have.”

Antonio propped himself up with an elbow, and took the bottle with a muttered thanks. For all he knew it was poison, but the look on Arthur’s face suggested it was something quite different.

“You should take it easy.” Arthur smirked. “It’s stro-”

Before he could finish Antonio brought the uncorked bottle to his lips, and gulped the whiskey with ease. He drank more than Thomas could ever manage, and even more than Arthur, who turned pale in astonishment.

“You…”

When satisfied Antonio pulled the bottle away with a soft, wet pop, and ran his tongue over his lips. After that he wedged the bottle within the cushions, and ran a fingertip around its rim.  “... You were saying, Arthur?”

“N-Nothing.” Arthur stammered. He boldly took a swig from his own bottle, grimacing at the punch it delivered to his taste buds. For the sake of his pride he did not stop until he drunk as much as the Spaniard, but when he pulled away he spluttered and gasped. A stark contrast to the unruffled Antonio.

“Careful, it’s strong.” Antonio purred with half lidded eyes, bringing his bottle back to his lips.

 

* * *

 

 “You’ve had quite the life!” Thomas praised João with considerable envy, and slapped a hand to his back. “But tell us somethin’ more. Somethin’…”

“Something what?” João laughed, then chugged down his ale. “I’ve sailed more times than you lot could ever piss, scaled mountains larger than a tavern girl’s chest and you act as if it is nothing!”

“Nah, nah, it’s brilliant mate.” Thomas leapt to his defense fast, holding up a hand. “But that’s the thing, tell us about those girls.”

“Have you had any recent… _voyages?_ ” Added another member of the crew, causing João to smirk and roll his eyes. He set his empty tankard upon the table, stretched his arms above his head, then folded them behind his neck as he reclined in his chair.

“You want the good stuff, eh?”

The crew felt no shame in agreeing, whilst a red-faced Peter sat beside him in dumb silence. Needless to say João appreciated their curiosity, but it was a thirst he struggled to quench. There were far too many instances to recall, for starters, and it was difficult to decide which was most pleasing.

“I’m guessin’ yer not pure.” Thomas slurred.

“Far from it.” João declared with pride. “Though you should know that all of my _adventures_ were carried out with great respect towards whoever took my fancy. A man such as myself cannot simply stick his prick in whatever he desires. Not when he’s to live for several centuries.”

“Surely that’d be a good thing.” Thomas scoffed. “Raisin’ a tiny Portuguese army of yer own.”

“For the sake of us all, there can only be one João.” João snickered. “If I bring anymore into the world, they may attempt to overthrow me. You understand?”

“You _can_ give them different names.” Thomas shot back, to which the crew and João threw their heads back with laughter. Even Peter found the conversation amusing, and poured some wine next for João to enjoy.

“Have you ever found love?” He asked, to which the crowd drew to a sudden silence. João stilled the hand that went to grab the wine, and observed Peter with curiosity, and compassion.

“Don't mind 'im, he's a romantic sort.” Thomas explained.

“It’s fine.” João replied, lowering his gaze with a smile. “I try to refrain from such attachments. But-”

“But...?” Thomas pressed, suddenly fascinated by the turn of events. “There was a maid, right? One that little bit more special-”

João shook his head softly, and held his cup of wine to his chest. “No, not a maid.”

“That’s alright.” Thomas insisted. “None of us gives much of a shit about that. Both men and women have breasts.”

“And bottoms.” Added one of his peers. If nothing else it made João laugh, and had him break from his period of stern silence.

“I’m afraid that’s not the problem.” He clarified. “It’s more a matter of who that person is, rather than what they keep within their breeches.”

“Then it’s a status thing?”

“He’s an empire.” Thomas reminded the group. “He can fuck who he wants.”

“Not if it’ll complicate political relations, and deeply offend the only family I have.” João sighed, rising from his chair. He set his cup upon the table shortly after, and gave Peter’s hair a gentle ruffle to assure him he had caused no harm. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a piss.”

 

* * *

 

 Arthur was beginning to deeply regret his choice of drink. The whiskey was far too strong from the start, and he barely succeeded in finishing his bottle.

Antonio on the other hand polished it off with ease, along with the second, and trailed the tip of his tongue about the rim just in case he had missed a single drop. Once finished he tossed the bottle somewhere over his shoulder, and beckoned for another.

“You should take it easy.” Arthur advised, trying not to gag on his last mouthful of whiskey. “It is… that is to say, you are not well. You must look after yourself.”

“I am miserable. Condemned.” Antonio retorted, reaching over to claim a bottle himself. “Already I have encountered several misfortunes, and am likely doomed to suffer more.”

“How so?”

“ _How so?_ ”

Antonio yanked the cork from his bottle, and tossed it at Arthur’s head with venom. “You forget the state of which you found me, locked away by my own crew!”

“Oh yes.” Arthur blinked, rubbing his forehead where the cork had hit it. “But I saved you-”

“Saved is not the word I would use.” Antonio continued in a steely tone. “You made a deal with Morales on the assumption that I am possessed, and bewitched me to your bed so that I could not retaliate to your stupidity.”

“You slapped me back then.”

“You deserved it.”

Arthur could not deny him that much. As Antonio listed each of his crimes in detail his mood turned for the worse however, and he relented to the pull of the whiskey.

“You threatened to boil me alive.” Antonio resumed without mercy. “You speak harshly when all I asked for is-”

“You made assumptions about myself and João.”

“Which you did not have to respond to with such malice!” Antonio exclaimed, slapping Arthur’s arm with the back of his hand. “Since then you have been cruel beyond all measures! You profess you dislike me, attempt to intimidate me during dinner, make false claims that I am asserting my authority and _now-_ ” He gasped for air, holding his bottle in a vice like grip. “You curse me and lure me into this… this _place_ , and for what?!”

When he put it like that, Arthur had to admit it did not make much sense. If anything Arthur began to sicken himself, and set his bottle aside with a grimace.

His head hurt, as did his heart. Arthur had behaved a complete fool to someone who showed nothing but kindness to him and his crew. He had obeyed Arthur’s demands without complaint, and endured his horrible mood with a respectable patience.

“I won’t ask you to forgive me.” He grumbled.

“Unfortunately I already have.”

“Why...?”

To that, Antonio could not say. Namely because the words would not come, and because the heat in his chest had suddenly fluttered to life, coaxing a light moan to fall from his lips. Apparently it agreed with the alcohol, or Arthur’s change of heart.

In the meantime Arthur furrowed his brows, drawing his focus to Antonio’s chest. “Is everything alright?”

“F-fine.” Antonio panted, drinking with urgency to hide another moan. Naturally Arthur was not convinced, and shuffled up until they lay side by side.

“You seem troubled. And not just by me.”

“I said I’m fine.” Antonio huffed, pushing the empty bottle to Arthur’s torso. “I’d like another.”

“Antonio-”

“Another.” Antonio stressed, bringing his arms across his body when Arthur chucked the bottle away, and leant over to inspect him properly.

“... Are you in pain?” Arthur asked, genuinely concerned. “Or perhaps you detest me that much? In which case I can leave.”

“I don’t hate you.” Antonio blurted. After that his cheeks prickled and reddened in his embarrassment. “I… I should but-”

Arthur wordlessly brought a hand towards Antonio’s chest. He prayed that his body might speak with greater clarity, and sure enough Antonio withdrew with a bewildered gaze, and snatched up his coat for cover.

“You expect too much.” Antonio spoke firmly. “At least, I presume so.”

“You presume?” Arthur asked, cocking a brow. “Surely my intentions were obvious?”

Antonio bit his lip, and averted his gaze. “I would not know. I have never…”

“Wha-” Arthur started, then drew a sharp breath. His hand likewise retracted in an instant, and his guilt crushed him harder than before.

In his drunken, power driven state he had planned something most intimate for Antonio that evening. Something which he hoped might shut him up, and mould him into a pleasant, abiding guest.

In retrospect that too was downright wicked, perverse, and destined to fail. After all, Antonio was not João. He lacked his brutal honesty and wit, and refrained from talks of sex.

“You’re still untouched… after all this time?” Arthur tripped on his words. Whether it be true or not the anticipation had him breathless, so much so that Antonio’s lips pursed tight in disgust, and his body riled up in anger.

There was only one answer befitting of Arthur’s question; a brisk, sharp slap to the face.

  
  



	13. Sapphire

 For once in his life, Arthur was at a loss for words. One moment he was upright, gawking at Antonio's innocence, and in the next he lay upon his back, staring at blurs of darkness and light. His hearing was fairly ruined, to say the least, but amongst the muffled shouting and cries he focused on his nose, and a thick trail of wet that dribbled from both nostrils.

To put it simply, Arthur was a dazed, bloody mess. He could barely turn his head, let alone speak, and grumbled when a damp rag was placed at his nose, drenched in that god forsaken whiskey. Above him Antonio fussed and fretted in sheer terror, and ran his free hand through Arthur’s hair in a bid to soothe him.

“I’m so sorry!” Antonio pleaded, holding the cloth in place. “I… I didn’t think I could hit that hard!”

Which was the honest, painful truth. Antonio had only meant to cause a mild sting at best, but instead he completely battered the man, and sent his head turning so hard that Antonio feared he might have broken Arthur’s neck in the process.

Fortunately that was not the case, but still Antonio regretted his actions. His body had rebelled yet again, overcome by blind, pure rage, and for once in his life he could recall it. If this was the behaviour which caused his King to send him away, and Morales to lock him up then Antonio perfectly understood, and would gladly atone for his deeds.

“I’m such an idiot...” He sighed, gently removing the cloth to inspect Arthur's nose. Once content that the bleeding had stopped he set the rag aside, but kept one hand in Arthur’s hair, and nursed his swollen cheek in the other. “Even if you have been awful, I don’t think you were deserving of that.”

“S’fine.” Arthur laughed, catching him by surprise. Not only had Arthur come back to his senses amidst his worrying, but he found the whole ordeal entertaining. For the first time in days Antonio had responded with literal, brutal honesty. He gave Arthur precisely what was coming to him, and in a way Arthur believed it was a sign to forgive and forget. For both of their sakes.

“Y’ hit very well.” He continued, weakly swinging a hand through the air. “Hope I'm that strong when I'm an empire.”

“You want to become one?”

Arthur shrugged. “I could do it. I think.”

“It's not much fun.” Antonio replied. “Everybody has a reason to hate you, a motive to frame you. You can't keep them all happy at once and-”

“It's lonely. Isn’t it?”

Antonio chewed his lower lip, humbled by Arthur’s sympathy. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“C’mere.” Arthur waved for Antonio to lay beside him. Upon doing so he draped an arm about his shoulders, and Antonio rested his head against Arthur’s chest, closing his eyes partway.

“I hate it.” He mumbled sadly. “I wish I was more like João.”

“What d’you mean?” Arthur blinked. At first Antonio did not answer, and attempted to bury his face in Arthur's shirt.

“S’nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.” Arthur sighed and stroked a hand through Antonio's hair. Not only was it lovely to look at, but soft as well, coiling round his fingers with ease. “But for what it's worth. I'm happy you're different.”

“I doubt that.” Antonio huffed.

“It's true.” Arthur chuckled, giving his hair a playful tug. “João is… interesting. I like him as a friend.”

“And what of me?”

Antonio stared up at Arthur in wait. His face was too calm, almost smug for Antonio's liking. He teased him with suspense, choosing to curl more of his hair about his hand, then without warning raised it to his lips, and gave it a gentle kiss.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

 

* * *

 

 By the time the clock struck eleven, Arthur’s crew were well and truly drunk. Some rolled about the floor mock fighting, or dancing, whilst others had fallen asleep at the tables, drooling all over the wood.

Surprisingly enough Thomas had eased up on his alcohol, to spend more time with their newest arrival. He thought João’s stories were incredible, and Peter too found them enjoyable, albeit lewd and wild in parts.

“I seriously envy yer life.” Thomas confessed, somewhat sullen as he spoke. “I mean, we’ve had our laughs in this crew but... to think there’s _more_ -”

“You should appreciate what you have.” João advised, looking to Peter in turn. “I’ve only experienced so much because I’ve lived long enough to do so.”

“But still-”

“Immortal life isn’t fun.” João cut in, deadly serious. Upon doing so Thomas and Peter reflected on his earlier confession of love, and kept their opinions to themselves.

João had behaved strangely ever since that conversation. He tried his best to stay upbeat, grinning like a lunatic, but somewhere in his voice and in his gestures, they detected a notion of strain. A sense that he was struggling to maintain a facade, and would rather depart the tavern altogether.

“Forgive us.” Thomas muttered, low enough to keep the conversation private. “It seems like you and yer brother are both troubled.”

“Apparently so.” João smiled dryly. He ran a fingertip around the rim of his tankard slowly, avoiding eye contact, and bit his lower lip in thought. “But you shouldn’t concern yourselves with us.”

“We like you.”

“That can change.” João insisted, glancing their way. “You’re already close to warring with Spain, and in time you might clash with my country as well. When that happens, I’m afraid you’ll see a very different side of us both.”

The reality of it all hit Peter hard, and had him huddle up to Thomas in fright. He did not want to fight with anyone, especially Antonio and João, but nor could a simple boy like himself ever do a thing to stop their conflicts.

“There, there.” Thomas uttered gently, and tugged Peter close with an arm. In a moment of bravery he then returned his attention to João, fully determined. “Let’s set this straight. This man of yours, the one you like-”

“Please don’t. Not now.” João groaned, dropping his cheerful act in full.

“He’s like you, isn’t ‘e?” Thomas pressed, narrowing his stare. “Are you two at war, and that’s why you can’t be close?”

“Thomas, enough!” João wheezed, scanning the room. Thankfully no one was sober or clever enough to eavesdrop, but it would not do to have Thomas firing accusations. “That topic is-... you’re not wrong but, it’s personal.”

“So I’m right?”

“No!” João snapped, and shut his mouth fast. “N-Not completely, but forget it. I want to sleep.”

“You can tell us-”

“Thomas.” Peter interrupted carefully, slipping out of his hold. “Let’s leave him be.”

Thomas wanted to refuse outright, having come so close to the truth. That said João had become incredibly distressed by the talk, and rose from his seat with wavering breaths.

“Is there a room I could use tonight?” He asked eventually. “I hadn’t planned on staying but...”

“This way.” Peter replied, calmly taking João’s hand in his own. As he did so João’s shoulders slouched, and his expression turned miserable. He politely bid Thomas goodnight, and let Peter guide him upstairs without question.

  


* * *

  


 Antonio forced down a lump in his throat. With one gentle display Arthur had made his intentions quite clear, but Antonio could not bring himself to rejoice. Not yet.

“I don’t understand.” He uttered, searching Arthur’s eyes for a clue. “When I arrived here you were so sweet, and generous. Then all of a sudden you changed and-”

“It was a terrible mistake!” Arthur snapped without realising. “I… I shouldn’t have behaved as I did. I know that!”

That was all Antonio wanted to hear. With a hum in approval he shifted upwards, and pecked the tip of his nose. “Thank you.”

“Tonio-”

“Ssh.” Antonio whispered, placing his finger to Arthur’s lips. “If that’s how you truly feel, we must take caution.”

“Why?” Arthur exclaimed, moving Antonio’s finger with care. “What is there for us to worry about?”

“I’m not innocent out of choice.” Antonio confessed, lowering his head in shame. “There are rumours. My court talk.”

“And what do they say…?” Arthur probed, narrowing his eyes. A hand rose to cup Antonio’s cheek in the meantime, which Antonio nuzzled with a pained expression.

“Some reckon my innocence is a virtue, and that I am loyal to my faith. But there are others who joke of the maiden empire. That I-...”

“That you what?”

Antonio took a raspy breath, and winced as his eyes prickled with tears. “T-They say that no one in their right mind would ever lay with me. That I am damned to be unloved for all of my sins-”

“That’s not true!” Arthur cut in, utterly appalled. “For all they know you’ve had a lover on the side. Hell, why didn’t you tell them that?!”

“They wouldn’t have believed me.”

Arthur cursed and rolled his eyes. “You didn’t even try.”

“ _I couldn’t!!_ ” Antonio cried, sitting up on his knees. “I considered it at first but I- I was discovered! I don’t know how, or when, but they found out the truth between you and me!!”

“ _What truth?_ ”

“That I  _loved_ you. You blind idiot!!” Antonio screeched. “And my suffering didn’t end there! After that your King destroyed a perfectly good marriage, and together you made me the joke of the Spanish court! Poor, idiotic Antonio, who fell out of favour with his love, as Katherine did her husband!”

“But that was thirty six years ago-” Arthur gasped, soon upright in disbelief. “Did you honestly love me all that time? Despite what happened?!”

Antonio bit his lip, then nodded. “... Even now.”

A horrible pang yanked at Arthur’s heart. If Antonio was telling the truth, it changed their recent history entirely.

When Mary died he blamed Antonio for their lack of communication. He thought he was petty and stuck up, when in reality it must have hit him harder than anybody else. The court must have mocked him for that too, and even now, several years later they taunted him. Hounded him over a love that he would never have.

“Oh God.”

Arthur wanted to throw up. After all that time Antonio must have been overjoyed to see him, to know Arthur had come to his aid, and he repaid that affection with cruelty and pain.

“I take it you've realised.” Antonio surmised, bringing Arthur's trembling hand into his own. “But it’s alright. I forgive you.”

“Why?!” Arthur choked out with wild frantic eyes. “I treated you like shit!”

“I’m just as guilty.” Antonio insisted. “If I had spoken sooner, things might have been different-”

“N-No. There’s still time.” Arthur blurted, wholly determined. “I can make it up to you. I will. I _promise_.”

“I know-”

“I mean it!” Arthur pressed, grabbing Antonio’s upper arms. “I’ll make your court shove their rumours up their bloody arses, because that’s all they are. Ridiculous, childish rumours!!”

Antonio agreed as much with a humbled laugh, but it could not change the situation. “The risks are still high, you realise? Back when we were allies it could have worked-”

Arthur cut him off with a growl, and a sudden searing kiss. He pulled Antonio flush to his torso with an arm about his waist, and kept him firmly in place when they parted for air. “I don’t care. Do you understand?”

“R-Right.” Antonio gasped, taken aback by the abrupt shown of passion. “But I-”

“But nothing. You and I are made for one another.” Arthur stated boldly, despite looking a weary, red eyed mess. “They reckon no one sensible would ever lay with you, and that’s true.”

“Thank you for the reminder.” Antonio deadpanned, grunting when Arthur’s hold tightened in warning. “Is there a point to this?”

“Of course there bloody well is!” Arthur bit back, ghosting his lips over Antonio’s with a soft groan. “You need a reckless man to keep you happy, and I think I fit that description well. I'll slay those bastards in your court if you wish, or war with all of Europe just to prove my devotion-”

“No, no. You've convinced me!” Antonio replied, wriggling in his grip. “But are you truly certain? I promise it’s not that simple-”

“I love you, and that’s enough.” Arthur concluded, bringing him into a tender kiss. With that said Antonio returned the gesture in full, and tangled his fingers in Arthur’s hair. He gladly shifted to straddle Arthur’s lap, and basked in the warmth of the fireplace just over his shoulder, and the eager hands roaming his back.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an appropriate chapter for EngSpaweek ;). If you'd like some more of these two please check out the many brilliant works people have created and uploaded to EngSpaWeek's tumblr. My own contributions can be found there, as well as here (but go nose at the tumblr, it's lovely. I promise.)


	14. Carnelian

 João was never certain what to make of England. Largely because he associated it with ale, and many accidental drunken brawls, but still he rather adored the place. In a matter of hours Arthur’s tavern became a second home, and after plenty of alcohol and conversation, João confessed he had turned rather soft.

He welcomed Peter’s offer to go upstairs, but when they reached the spare room he hesitated, and looked to the downtrodden boy by his side. The topic of war had hit him harder than João first realised, and before he knew it he was leading Peter on, choosing to accompany him for the night.

“Just one story. And then we sleep.” João called from across the room, changing behind a large folding screen. He tossed his day clothes into a pile by his feet, and rummaged for his nightshirt in his bag. “But nothin’ about women or sex, I’ve had enough talk of that for one night.”

“You and me both.” Peter agreed, blushing at the thought. Thanks to the crew he was now an expert on a lady’s body, and could no doubt draw a map if he were asked. “I’d like to hear more about sailing, if you don’t mind.”

“Really?” João’s voice rose in bewilderment. “Is that all?”

“It’s plenty.” Peter replied, climbing into bed. “I love the sea.”

Whether it involved ships battling the might of a beast, or sailing peacefully beneath the stars, the ocean was Peter’s obsession, his love. He wanted nothing more than to be trusted upon Arthur’s ship one day, and experience the power of the waves for himself.

“If it’s a problem we can choose something else.” Peter considered, looking about the room in thought. “The Eastern lands, perhaps.”

“I already mentioned that as well.” João laughed. “Honestly boy, I’m not that interesting.”

“But you are!” Peter insisted, letting his jaw drop when João stepped out from behind the screen.

Albeit keen to find himself a good girl, Peter had to confess João held a certain beauty of his own. It stemmed from his blunt nature, his strength, but also in the depths of his eyes, and the waves of dark hair which now hung freely past his shoulders.

That said, his nightshirt was rather odd. It was several sizes too large for starters, as if João was hoping for another growth spurt or five, and the edges of the black garment were adorned with trails of embroidery. From flower chains, to rabbits, all depicted in a cute European style.

“You’re thinking we look similar, huh?” João surmised, playing with the ends of his hair. Suffice to say the idea had not crossed Peter’s mind, but he responded with a brisk nod, and waited for João to climb into bed.

“I don’t blame you. We have our similarities.” João laughed beneath his breath. “Though we have many differences too-”

“That’s not your shirt.” Peter spoke without thinking.

“... Indeed. It is not.” João uttered, glancing down at his clothes. “D’you think it’s bad?”

Peter shook his head, and leant in to admire the needlework. “Fine craftsmanship, Arthur would say.”

João quirked a brow. “He says that?”

“Arthur says a lot of things.” Peter giggled. “But for what it’s worth I think it suits you.”

“... Thanks.” João replied, handling the cuff of his sleeve with care. He looked upon the embroidery there with a fond, distant gaze, then cleared his throat in an effort to push on. “Anyway, you said you wanted a story-”

“Do you believe in love?” Peter asked boldly.

“I believe in all manner of things.” João replied, smiling. “But love is definitely amongst them.”

“And you love whoever owned that shirt?”

“Enough to steal it.” João scoffed, sliding downwards until he lay flat. “But that’s a story for another day.”

 

 

* * *

 

 Antonio’s body burned with impatience and desire. His body shivered under the gentle graze of fingertips, and as Arthur carefully shuffled down his front, and splayed kisses over his stomach he groaned, praying for Arthur to do more.

He wanted the passion. The heat. He was glad the scheming, rotten Arthur was gone, but at the same time he ached for him to dominate, and overwhelm him in full. If Arthur wished to strip him naked and take him fast, he would allow it, but instead Arthur showered him in kisses and kind words, eager to make amends for his behaviour.

They both lost their shirts, then their boots, and their breeches. The lack of boots upset Arthur to an extent, having become fond of Antonio’s leather clad thighs, but he set aside his woes to focus on Antonio alone. How the fire cast a beautiful glow across his skin, and defined every twitch of his abdomen when Arthur ghosted his fingertips down, and pressed his palm flat above his groin.

“Incredible…”

“You exaggerate.” Antonio protested.

“Far from it.” Arthur quickly retaliated. Gently then he stroked the same hand back and forth, relishing in every soft gasp and jerk he coaxed from his lover. “You look stunning.”

“That’s the whiskey talking.”

“I’d say the same thing when sober.” Arthur snorted, leaning in to give him a kiss. By then Antonio’s lips had turned a lovely pink, tempting him back time and time again for another taste. Another clash of tongues, and lustful, dragged out moans. When he cupped Antonio’s crotch the noises turned louder, and eager hips rolled up against his palm, throbbing with heat and want. It didn’t take long to get him in the mood, all things considered, and soon enough Arthur had a pair of arms draped about his neck, and a hard cock pulsing in his hand.

“How is it?”

“D-Don’t make me say it.” Antonio whined, clinging tight. He buried his head in Arthur’s neck for the sake of his dignity, and mewled sweetly when Arthur rubbed a thumb over the head of his dick, before giving the full length the attention he craved.

If nothing else it appeared Arthur preferred to give, rather than receive, for each moan and cry had him smirk harder than ever before, and responding with firmer, forceful hands. He reverted back to the Arthur Antonio loved, the one who spoilt him with kindness and affection, and Antonio would gladly spread his legs for that.

“Arthur-”

“No.” Arthur breathed, nibbling at Antonio’s earlobe. “Call me what you used to.”

“But that’s…”

Arthur’s thumb pressed firmly upon his tip in silent warning. Not enough to cause upset or pain, but certainly sufficient for Antonio to get the point, and buck his hips hard in protest.

“A-Arturo.”

“Good.” Arthur praised, rewarding him with several much needed pumps of his wrist. When Antonio wriggled to match his pace he obliged, and admired the sight of his partner in bliss. All the jerking, pining and unravelling until Antonio came without warning, and arched up with a cry like no other.

After that everything stilled, for a moment. Arthur peppered his face with small kisses and encouraging words, then crawled down until level with his crotch. Understandably Antonio’s dick was spent, but if he wished to understand carnal desire he would have to endure, and make do with Arthur’s wretched ways.

“D-Don’t!” Antonio pleaded weakly, staring downwards when Arthur began to flick his tongue over his length. The very touch against his skin was incredible, but after such pleasure it was too much, too soon, and had him writhing like a hot, sensitive mess. “Give me time…!”

“You can do it.” Arthur insisted, as if were really that simple. With his usual deadpan expression he cupped Antonio’s balls, rolled them about in his palm, then proceeded to clean up his dick with his mouth. Worshipping every inch with unashamed, filthy groans. He poked his tongue into the slit with a smirk, and shoved it deep until Antonio could take no more, and forced him back with trembling, sweaty palms.

“S’too good. Stop…!”

“As you wish.” Arthur complied, planting his lips upon Antonio’s inner thigh. At the very least he could mark that without complaint, and felt a newfound pride when Antonio rolled his head back in delight, and parted his legs in complete surrender. He welcomed the nibbling, and the occasional bite, and when Arthur dragged his tongue up close to his entrance he breathed fast, and shifted in anticipation.

Arthur had to take him now. The tip of his tongue was so hot, so close to his arse, and yet in a last minute decision the teasing bastard retreated, and pecked his thigh with a hearty laugh.

“Is there something you want, love?” Arthur cooed, playfully blowing against his groin. “Something _more_?”

“You know what.” Antonio snapped, messing up his hair in revenge. “Hurry it up.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Arthur lied, forever grinning. This time he accompanied his words with a single fingertip, pressing it firmly against his puckered hole. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No!”

“Then get on your hands and knees.” Arthur commanded, pulling back to retrieve a bottle of oil. Needless to say Antonio was keen to obey, and greeted Arthur with supple legs parted wide, and the proud curves of his arse on display. He held no qualms when Arthur inspected each cheek with an approving hum, but let out a strange squeak when a foreign, cool object touched his arsehole, and nudged its way just inside.

“Arturo, what’re you-?!”

“I don’t want this to hurt.” Arthur explained, and that was that. A generous amount of oil was poured in before Arthur was content, and after that the bottle retreated, replaced by a single finger. “Relax, and it’ll be fine.”

“T-Trying.” Antonio gasped, moving back against Arthur’s finger. To no surprise the initial touch stang, but he ignored it for the sake of his love, and for the patience Arthur granted all the way. The second finger never joined until he was ready, and the third only came when Antonio’s breaths turned ragged, and his hips pushed back in need of something bigger. The something that ached between Arthur’s legs, longing to bury itself in the cosy heat of Antonio’s arse.

“Put it in, please.” Antonio wheezed, tingling with excitement. “Or I’ll have to do it myself.”

“Would you now…?” Arthur challenged, feeling his cock twitch at the thought. In truth he had planned to shag Antonio there and then, but if he were up to taking control, then so be it.

“I’d like to.”

Arthur responded with a gentle, knowing smile, and shifted to lay back against the cushions. After that he beckoned for Antonio to straddle his waist, and kept his hands to himself whilst Antonio adjusted his position, and angled Arthur’s dick to his needy hole.

It was at that precise moment that Arthur should have stopped him, or at least slowed him, but before he could process the words his tip was buried in that incredible heat. “Oooh fuck.”

“A-Agreed.” Antonio moaned, placing both hands upon Arthur’s chest for support. Inch by inch he slid down, breathing deep in concentration, but upon seating himself fully he smiled, and looked to Arthur as if expecting praise. “Done it.”

“You’re so fucking cute.” Arthur blurted without delay. From his posture to his toothy grin, everything about his image was perfect. He even giggled hard at Arthur’s outburst, and teased him with a small wiggle of his hips.

“You really think so?”

“If I said it, I meant it.” Arthur replied, grabbing Antonio’s hips before he lost it. “Now off you go.”

“Yes  _Captain._ ” Antonio jibed, attending to his duties right away. Thankfully he was not in the mood to mess about, and soon enough he was writhing and sweating away on Arthur’s dick, as if he were anything but a virgin. Or untouched.

In fact, dare Arthur say it, he was bloody good. Antonio began with a steady rock, testing the right angle, and depth, but when his confidence grew so did the tempo. The excess oil spilled over their groins with each thrust, and in time Arthur clapped a hand upon either side of Antonio’s waist, helping him rock to the beat.

“F-Fuckin’ love you.” Arthur growled, trying to roll his hips up hard. He loved the slick feeling of their skin, a mixture of sweat and oil, and how Antonio’s plump arse slapped his crotch, but despite his efforts he could only do so much. The reigns were firmly in Antonio’s grasp, so to speak, and there was but one way to reverse the situation.

“ _Arturo!”_

“Sorry love.” Arthur blurted, flipping them over fast. Through sheer luck he was able to keep them connected all the while, and before Antonio could process the change Arthur was driving into him deeper, wilder, _hard._ He grazed a spot that stunned Antonio to silence, and in the next second sent him clawing and fumbling to wrap his arms about Arthur’s neck, and press their bodies close for more.

“Arturo I-”

“I-I know.” Arthur finished, claiming his lips. “Leave it to me.”

Antonio replied with a clumsy nod, and focused on the burning heat. The passion and the might Arthur packed into each push. Over and over he hit close to Antonio’s prostate, to the point it might send him mad, but on the other hand he kept their bodies flush, creating a wonderful friction upon his cock.

Amidst all that Antonio considered himself lucky, and clung to Arthur in case it was all a dream. He locked his ankles about Arthur’s waist to keep him closer still, but in a flash everything suddenly stopped, and turned bright. His mind snapped as Arthur finally hit his prostate hard, and whatever happened next was a blur; a rush of lewd screaming and ecstasy, before he succumbed to the blissful aftermath, drifting in and out of consciousness.

“ _F_ - _Fuh_...”

“Mnn.” Arthur presumably agreed. Strong arms looped Antonio’s body to cuddle him tight, and following a few good jerks he was able to join him at last, filling Antonio up with a triumphant groan. It was everything he wanted and more, seeing Antonio a dazed, happy mess in his arms, but then the angel surpassed himself once again, uttering two words Arthur rarely deserved.

“Thank you.”

  



	15. Quartz

 

 From that point on Arthur swore to become a decent man. Or better than he had been, at least. When everyone had gone to sleep he carried Antonio to their bed, and made sure to tuck him in without causing a stir.

By sunrise however Arthur became Captain, rather than lover, and attended to the duties of the land. He rose first to prepare breakfast for the crew, and left a note for Peter on the side, should things go horribly wrong. After that he departed for the docks, praying that all would be well, and that he could return to the tavern in good time.

 

* * *

 

 “This had best be worth it.” Arthur grumbled, catching the sailors unawares. Normally Arthur was much more carefree and bright, but today he seemed irritable, cold. As if he would rather be elsewhere.

He did not take up their offer to visit the local tavern during the inspections, or stop to engage in song, and even when Thomas joined the group his mood failed to improve.

All he wanted was to be back with Antonio, curled up in their bedsheets and listening to the gulls outside. Instead he was thrust out amongst them, wincing everytime they screeched, and nursing his whiskey-battered head.

“You don’t look good mate.” Thomas stated, as if it weren’t obvious. “Long night?”

“Long. But enjoyable.” Arthur conceded, managing a smile. Even if his skull did throb with every breath, he could say that he was happy. Content. “I made a great deal of progress.”

“Pardon my sayin’, but…” Thomas hesitated, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “You do seem kinda’ different.”

“Is that so?”

Thomas nodded. “Can’t really describe it. Mainly ‘cos I’m shit with words.”

“You could try.” Arthur chuckled. “Humour me.”

The pair of them wandered on, oblivious to the task at hand. After all, the sailors had plenty to be dealing with already, and they hardly needed Arthur’s approval every step of the way.

“Well…” Thomas peered up in thought. “Yer pissy as usual, because of the drink. But at the same time I get the feeling you’re trying to make up for somethin’.”

“I see.”

“Don’t take it the wrong way.” Thomas pleaded, noticing the alarm in Arthur’s eyes. “I ain’t meaning to insult you. I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve known you a long time and… Whatever’s going on I just- I’m happy for yer.”

“Thank you.” Arthur replied with a gentle smile. “And whilst we’re on that note, I’ve been thinking about this lady of yours, the French one.”

“Right, right. I promised you I’d get over her-”

“I’ve changed my mind.” Arthur declared, to his surprise. “I think you should invite her to the tavern one evening. If she has friends they can come along too- oh, and find a young one for Peter. I think the boy needs to live a little more.”  

Thomas nearly tumbled off the docks at that statement, and had to grab Arthur’s shoulder for balance. “A-Are you sure mate? It was only days ago that you were tellin’ us how bad it is to love, and how it would lead us to an early grave.”

“You disapprove then?”

“No at all!” Thomas insisted, bursting into a hearty laugh. It scared off a nearby seagull in the process, causing them both to chuckle, until the heavy stomp of boots cut them short, and brought Arthur’s mood down with a triumphant bang.

“Of all the people…” He sighed, looking back to the sailors over his shoulder. Funnily enough they had chosen to stay well away from the far side of the docks, and when the irritable Spanish mutineer came strutting across the planks, it became all too clear to see why.

Morales was still adorned in fine, tailored garb, but this time he had gained several expensive jewels. Such as a big chain he draped about his shoulders, and rings far too large for his horrible, skinny fingers.

“I have been waiting for you.” He announced, straightening up as he stood before them.

“My apologies.” Arthur sneered. “We came here strictly for English matters, so you’ll need to keep it brief.”

“And no flowery talk. It ain’t easy to follow.” Thomas added. To that Morales turned up his nose, and stood a little higher to ascertain his authority.

“I wish to speak with your Captain alone.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.” Arthur interrupted. “Thomas here attends all of my business engagements, as expected of a loyal First Mate.”

“That-” Morales began, then clamped his mouth shut. Arthur’s remark had wounded him in every way imaginable, and it took all of Arthur’s willpower not to break down in a fit of giggles.

“You ‘eard him.” Thomas continued. “What d’you want?”

Morales cleared his throat, shooting Arthur a glare when he let a small snort escape. “You owe me a report on your progress.”

“My what?” Arthur scoffed.

“I believe he means Antonio.” Thomas chipped in. “Y’know, that possessed bloke?”

“ _Oh,_ of course!” Arthur nodded briskly, then burst into a grin. “Right, he’s coming along nicely. We have him do all the chores, a bit of prayer, followed by a good ol’ beating. You know how it goes.”

Surprisingly, the latter detail caused Morales to perk up. He raised a brow when Arthur spoke of chains and strange basements, but the worse the story spiralled out of the control, the more enthusiastic he became. In fact his glee was beginning to disturb them both, namely Thomas who pressed his lips shut tight, and let Arthur take full control.

By the end of it all Arthur was unsure whether to laugh, or be concerned, but Morales ate up their lies regardless, content with their supposed report.

“When can I expect to seem him returned?” Morales asked finally. “Need I remind you, we are pressed for time.”

“I understand.” Arthur replied. “But as you know there is a great deal wrong with his head, the Devil cannot be removed in a matter of days.”

“I see.” Morales muttered, considering his response. He ran a fingertip over a gaudy gold ring, and cast his gaze towards the sea. “Until next time then.”

“Indeed.” Arthur agreed, watching him return to his ship. Fortunately Morales took the sour atmosphere with him, but nothing could shake the bad feeling in their gut, or the dread of when he would next rear his ugly head.

“... Let’s get goin’.” Thomas advised, hurrying Arthur along.

 

* * *

 

 Albeit lacking a certain moody, endearing Brit, Antonio was enjoying his morning to the fullest. He wriggled and hummed as he got comfortable in bed, which thanks to Arthur had become a nest of cotton and velvet blankets, and more pillows than one man could ever need. A bottle of wine was set aside for him when ready, but for the meantime Antonio lazily buried his face in the sheets, and took a long, deep breath.

Even after so many bedding changes, Arthur’s scent still remained. If Antonio closed his eyes, and held one of the thicker pillows he could pretend the man was still there, grumbling and refusing to get up.

Antonio would forgive him, of course, and choose to lay in bed as well. They’d spend the entire morning there if Arthur wished it, exchanging feather soft kisses, and exploring one another’s bodies with cautious hands. After that Arthur would claim the pillows were crap, and slip beneath the covers to settle between Antonio’s thighs.

“Hnn…” Antonio surfaced from the sheets to groan at the very thought, then slipped a hand between his legs. He traced the bite marks Arthur left upon his inner thighs, and accepted the bruising with pride. Upon further inspection he discovered the entire area was clean, and wondered how long Arthur must have remained awake, carefully tending to his needs.

Suffice to say, Antonio felt thoroughly spoilt. And ever so slightly aroused. Thinking too hard on the final detail caused his groin to burn, which Antonio remedied by wedging a spare pillow between his legs. It was a far cry from Arthur’s hand, or his mouth, but as Antonio slowly rolled his hips it did the job. He made the best of his time alone, writhing until the room became alive with heat and airy moans.

“A-Arturo…”

“Antonio?”

“ _Fucking hell-_ ” Antonio jolted, whipping his head towards the door. Of all the people to bother him, it had to be his blasted brother. “What is it?!”

“No need to get angry!” João snapped, opening the door without a second thought. “Honestly, you treat me like an enemy!”

“Sorry, sorry. I just woke up.” Antonio sighed, tugging the sheets up higher to cover his body. The pillow between his thighs remained however, and caused him to bite on his lip when he moved against it too hard. “Was there… something you needed?”

João threw up his hands in a half arsed shrug, and produced a wax sealed parchment from his pocket. “Artur wrote this for you. He left one for me and Peter too.”

“Oh?” Antonio took it with an eager hand, but did not open it just yet. “What did yours say?”

“Never you mind.” João smirked. “Nosy bastard.”

“I’m trying to hold a conversation-”

“I know, I know.” João conceded with a laugh. He reached over the bed to pat Antonio firmly on the head, then gave his hair such a ruffle that it fell in front of his face. When Antonio hurried to fix it he accidentally showed off the many teeth marks upon his neck and shoulders, a sight which had João whistling and prodding the marks in disbelief.

“My, my Antonio. You had a productive evening!”

“Shut up!”

João did as he was told, smiling whilst Antonio dove further beneath the bed sheets. Even when they were kids Antonio had been easy to tease, whether it was over a flower he had accidentally crumpled, to the little crush he always harboured for Arthur.

“Joking aside, I’m glad it went well.” João spoke in earnest. “You were so reluctant during your bath yesterday that I was worried. I had a feeling that you two were… strained.”

“... We were.” Antonio confessed with a weakened smile. “But we’ve talked.”

“So I can see.”

“Sshh.” Antonio hushed, avoiding João’s keen, but well intentioned gaze. Whether João pissed him off or not, he was his brother, and they cared for one another in their own way. João simply preferred to make fun at every opportunity, whilst Antonio resorted to being grumpy, and praying he would not bring up anything embarrassing from their younger days.

“I’ll leave you to it.” João piped up shortly after, waving as he returned to the door. “So you can read your letter in peace, and pleasure yourself in Artur’s bed-”

_"João!”_

“Later.” João winked, closing the door on his way out. Upon hearing the familiar click the room drew to an awkward silence, whilst Antonio’s hardening cock reminded him of his earlier predicament. For a minute he considered satisfying that urge first, but then the letter in his hand screamed for his attention as well.

“... Letter first.” Antonio settled, reluctantly pulling the pillow out from between his legs. He snuggled against the remaining pillows with a sigh, and opened the parchment to admire Arthur's handwriting first. As wild and hasty as the man himself.

 

_Morning love,_

_By the time you read this I’ll be on the docks, stinking of sea salt and shit, and regretting the pull alcohol has over my mind. I lament that drink lead me astray yesterday, and brought out a wickedness I pray never sees the light again._

_That said, I cannot blame the bottle alone. I have betrayed you many times without it, caring for nothing but my own advancement and wealth, when any sane man could see I was already rich with your love and faith._

_I was no better than the late King, in that respect. I was a forsaken, wretched fool, and whilst I write it so plainly here, I confess I lack the courage to speak these thoughts aloud, or convey them in simpler terms._

_It is, after all, the English fashion to complicate whenever possible, and selfishly prattle on about my woes, when the crux of the matter is that I love you, and always will._

_I would have given the world to remain by your side this morning, and even now I close my eyes and imagine your head upon my chest, your body moulded perfectly to mine. I am not deserving of your grace, nor the sweet thanks you uttered to me last night, but I cherish those moments to no end. Why, I would gladly feel the bite of your slap a hundred times than leave your side for good, and pray that somehow, someday, I can truly make amends._

_Make no mistake, I believe our time here is far from over. There is much more to your circumstance than I first anticipated, and by God I will smack your First Mate senseless if it will grant me the answers we need. I know within my heart, as I always have, that there is no Devil in your mind. Only a fire I crave and respect._

_All my love,  
_ _Arturo_

 

“Idiota...” Antonio sighed lovingly, giving the parchment a tender kiss. He folded it in three, and pecked the wax seal once complete, but as he considered returning the pillow between his legs he froze, spying a glimpse of green fur close to his head.

Heaven knows how it got there, or how it came to be, but a curious rabbit-like creature had gotten into Arthur’s room, and settled upon the nearby pillow. Its nose twitched as it observed Antonio in silence, whilst the small wings on its back flapped gently, then tucked themselves neatly into place.

“... Hello.” Antonio laughed nervously, holding the letter to his chest. The fact that he decided to start a conversation with it, rather than run, seemed absurd enough, but before he could think on it further the rabbit hopped up even closer, and let out a tiny squeak.

“Hello Antonio.”


	16. Azurite

 No matter how strange the situation became, Antonio refused to scream. He was, after all, a man who had lived through countless reigns, battles and celebrations. He’d drunk enough wine to fill the English channel, and all things considered that made him just as odd as his new, green companion.

That said, he found himself at a certain disadvantage. The rabbit knew his name for his starters, and held no qualms with hopping onto his lap when he sat up. In fact it was far too friendly for its own good, proceeding to clean its fur as if the whole scenario were perfectly normal.

After that came a pair of spectres, drifting through the left hand wall. The first, and most eager, was a young servant woman, who regarded Antonio with a cry of delight, followed by a stern looking steward with an impressive moustache, and stuffy, well kept clothes. Presumably he had come to pry the excitable woman away, but when he spied Antonio upon the bed, bundled in little more than the bedsheets he gasped, and ushered the maid towards the nearby cupboard instead.

“Goodness me-” He declared, averting his gaze. “I wasn’t aware the young Master had a guest.”

“Arthur’s not young.” The rabbit piped up, giving the back of its ear a good scratch. “And Antonio’s been here for days, unlike you.”

“We had business to attend elsewhere.” The steward scolded.

“You mean haunting your old Master’s estate?”

“Quite.” The steward accepted with subtle pride. When he turned Antonio noticed a gruesome jagged scar across his neck, a single strike which no doubt led him to his demise. Despite it all however Antonio remained unfazed, until the maid plucked out a white cotton dress, and appeared to shine with anticipation.

“Might I prepare our guest?”

“You may.” The steward obliged. “But I believe you have made a mistake.”

“How so?”

“Antonio’s a man.” The rabbit intervened once more, whilst Antonio shrugged with a sheepish laugh. In fairness to the maid it was an easy mistake, but even so her spirits never dampened, and she approached the matter with more resolve than before.

“I think it would please Arthur.”

Antonio had to agree, but kept that thought to himself. “... Why does Arturo own women’s clothes?”

“Why is that the first thing you question?” The rabbit exclaimed, stretching out its wings. “Aren’t you curious about us? How it is we have appeared before you?”

“I’m old, and a lot has happened.” Antonio deadpanned, patting the rabbit softly on the head. “I guess I’ve spent long enough in England to gain your trust, or something like that.”

“If it were that simple, everyone would be able to see us.” The steward laughed. “Now please, indulge us. Unless the Master has given strict instructions to remain silent?”

Antonio blinked. “That’s not-”

“That makes sense.” The rabbit explained with a saddened squeak. “Arthur doesn’t give much away when it comes to magic. But to think he let you behind the curtain of all places, and granted you such power… that’s incredible.”

“Have you not been there yourselves?” Antonio pried carefully.

“Oh no. Only Arthur can get you through.” The rabbit replied, perking up its ears. “But anyway, explain. Was there a ceremony? A spell? How did he put that magic inside of you?”

“I-Inside? Well, I-…” Antonio started, then pressed his lips shut. He recalled the previous evening; all the whiskey, the fighting, and their less-than-virtuous affairs, and soon his stomach began to churn with dread. Sober, magic Arthur was a nuisance at the best of times, but drunk, magic Arthur was capable of anything, should he wish for it hard enough.

“I couldn’t say.” Antonio answered to their dismay. With a gentle hand he shifted the rabbit aside, and slipped out from under the covers. “You know how it is.”

“Aha!” The steward declared, puffing his chest. “I was right. He has you sworn to secrecy.”

Antonio broke into a nervous laugh, leaving the matter at that.

 

* * *

 

 The ale tasted sweet on Arthur’s tongue, a perfect end to an otherwise boring afternoon. The docks inspection had gone as well as he anticipated, even with Morales shoving his nose in, and now he could relax in their chosen haunt. His second favourite, local tavern.

Albeit inferior to his own retreat, Arthur welcomed the smells of drink and food, and the warm atmosphere of the room. The owner -and bartender- was a large man with a gentle heart, who fashioned his ginger beard with small beaded braids, and boomed whenever he laughed. He was also a friend from long ago, whom Arthur and his crew had once saved, and ever since then he welcomed all of them in without question. Serving them anything and everything they desired.

“Here we are lads.” Said the bartender, setting down two fresh tankards. “To another successful day.”

“It’s barely begun.” Thomas laughed. “We still have the afternoon, the evening, and the night to go!”

“True.” The bartender conceded, patting a hand to his great, big belly. “But I got a feelin’ you two have been out keepin’ our home nice n’ safe.”

“More or less.” Arthur agreed with a humble smile. “Are your family well?”

“Bloody brilliant.” The bartender beamed. “M’eldest daughter’s got a little one on the way. Reckon it’ll be born in the autumn.”

“Ah, congratulations.”

“Indeed. I wish ‘em all the best.” Thomas added, trying to hide his disappointment. Once upon a time he had attempted to charm said lovely maid, only to discover that her heart was set elsewhere. To a man much richer, and more handsome, than he.

“The wife’s gone out shoppin’ with our youngest.” The bartender continued. “I’m afraid you may be gone before she returns, but I’ll be sure to let her know you visited.”

“Please do.” Arthur replied. “But also tell her I plan to return, I rather miss those pies she makes.”

“As do I.” The bartender laughed, giving his belly another hearty slap. “Anyway, enough of me. What about yourselves? Any news?”

“Well-”

A spluttering Thomas cut Arthur off before he could even start. “Oh, he’s got news alright-”

“Be quiet, you tit.” Arthur scolded, whacking the back of his head. “Ignore him. He’s forever lost in his own amusement.”

“With good reason.” The bartender added kindly. “You do attract some awful luck.”

That went without saying, Arthur inwardly moaned. Fortunately Thomas remained silent on the matter, and merrily chugged his ale down in one.

“The recent storm as caused a lot of hassle on my end.” Arthur explained in due course. “We’re getting all sorts of nasty surprises landing on our shores.”

“... Bodies?” The bartender asked in a cautious tone.

“If only.” Arthur snorted. “It’s the living ones which are the problem.”

“No changes there then.” The bartender sighed, taking Thomas’s tankard for a refill. As he went away he did so with a troubled expression, one far greater than Arthur expected, and upon his return he set the tankard down with care, and bit his lower lip. “... Y’ know, some unusual folk have been showin’ up here the last few days. Most of ‘em are foreign. Tryin’ to get some good business, but then others just come n’ sit down. Don’t bother ordering a thing.”

“Do they cause any harm?” Arthur pried.

The bartender shook his head. “It makes the regulars nervous though. That’s why they were so happy to see you two walk in. Almost like we still got friends in this place.”

“... I see.” Arthur murmured, narrowing his gaze meanwhile. He wanted to place the entire blame on Morales, but with so many ships docking at once it was impossible to pin it on him alone. “Well, should things become out of control, you know where to find us.”

“You’re a kind soul.” The bartender praised, glancing to some new arrivals on the other side of the bar. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” Arthur nodded, gesturing for him to go on. With that settled he then tended to his lonely tankard, bringing it to his lips for a few swigs. The more he drank the better it tasted, and the less he thought on all those ships stuck at his port, stuffed to the brim with miserable merchants.

“This is good, huh?” Thomas spoke up, noting the way Arthur’s face finally softened. “What say we have a few more, then wander along the beach?”

“Sounds perfect.” Arthur agreed, flashing a smile. “However, I must refuse. I'm watching my drink from now on.”

“Really?”

Arthur confirmed as much with a nod, and nudged his half empty tankard away. “It puts me in a foul mood."

“Huh.” Thomas eyed him up and down, then gave his back a gentle, reassuring clap. “Good on you, mate.”

 

* * *

 

 An hour passed by, and Arthur stuck good to his word. His tankards became smaller, barely filled, until he decided to skip alcohol altogether, and enjoy the fruit juice prepared by the owner’s wife.

“Incredible.” He remarked aloud, grabbing Thomas’s attention. “This stuff works wonders on a sore head.”

“No, really?” Thomas mocked. “And here I thought alcohol solved everything…”

“You’re a bad influence.”

“You’re quite capable of saying no.”

“That’s not the-” Arthur blurted, only to shut up shortly after. From the corner of his eye he spied a large man coming their way, and feared whatever bad luck came with his arrival.

Usually the tavern would have drawn to a hush by now, and the man potentially thrown out in precaution, but with so many odd people passing by no one dared to bat an eyelid. In fact Arthur highly doubted they cared. So as long as blood was not spilt they would press on, and enjoy their ale for what it was worth.

“You there.” The man called, getting straight to the point. “Are you Arthur Kirkland?”

“Depends.” Said a shrugging Arthur. “D’you come with good news, or bad?”

“Good. We’ve got something that belongs to you.” The man cracked a smile too soft for his rough exterior, and looked back to the tavern door. One of his men stood there propping it open, and once given the command he backed out, beckoning to his peers in the street. “You must have left it back at the docks.”

“Uh…” Arthur shoved a hand deep in each pocket, and furrowed his brows. As he carried out his search Thomas kept a cautious eye on the men by the door, only to gawk when they brought over a cheery Antonio, half hidden beneath his hooded cloak.

“Arthur, mate-”

 _"Tonio!”_ Arthur near on screeched, scrambling from his seat in a panic. He shoved the men aside without a single care, and grabbed Antonio’s shoulders in steady hands. “Tonio you bloody- What the hell are you doing out here?!”

Within seconds Antonio was biting his lip, visibly wounded. “I knew you’d be unhappy.”

“No!” Arthur gasped, shaking his head. “No, no, no. I’m happy. But scared too. You know what-” He paused, eyeing the strange men still standing besides them. “No. Nevermind. But you understand, don’t you?”

Fortunately, Antonio did. He had considered the likelihood of bumping into Morales, or any of his crew amidst his journey, but it was a risk he had to take.

“I came because it’s urgent.” Antonio replied. “Well, not so urgent but- it can’t wait.”

Arthur’s eyes darted about Antonio’s face, searching for potential wounds. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Sick?”

Antonio appreciated the open display of concern, but dismissed them all with a humble smile. He took a moment to glance back at the men, as if they might catch wind of their conversation, then parted his cloak to reveal a waving, green rabbit, cradled safely in his arms.

“Oh no.” Arthur realised, tugging the cloak shut fast. “We really need to talk."

 

 


	17. Fluorite

“So here we are.” Antonio sighed, petting the rabbit on his lap. “Back in Arturo’s room again.”

“I thought he said he wanted to talk.”

“He said he _needed_ to talk.” Antonio corrected. “Wants and needs are entirely different things.”

The rabbit turned up its nose in defiance, and hopped its way across the bed. It didn’t get what on earth Arthur was up to, dragging them back to his tavern so soon. It wanted questions, answers, the _truth_ , and all the while Arthur shut himself away, no one would gain a thing.

“You’ve always been so calm.” It complained, scratching the back of its ear. “Forgiving to a fault.”

“Excuse me?”

“That said, beyond your smiles, and pleasant words. There’s an incredibly clever mind.” The rabbit continued without a care. “Not the calculating sort, that’s not your style. But you certainly know how to achieve what you want.”

“Is that criticism, or praise?”

“Take it however you like.”

Antonio rolled his eyes, turning his back to the rabbit. Everything had changed since Antonio made his reveal in the local tavern, and not necessarily for the best. Thomas hurried back fastest of all, whilst Arthur tugged a reluctant Antonio along, begging him to pick up the pace. When they returned Antonio was ushered to Arthur’s room, and only the rabbit dared to join him.

Whether he realised it or not, Antonio’s magic was beginning to take its hold. It seeped through every pore, every vein, pulling like a puppeteer’s strings. At first it tried to reject him outright, but then something much greater within in him oppressed its force. Tamed it like a wild beast.

“I think you’re just as bad.” Antonio laughed on that note. “Shouldn’t you be afraid of me? Of a stranger entering your tranquil little world?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“... You’ve known me a long time, haven’t you?”

The rabbit stopped in its tracks, and turned its head Antonio’s way. True to its earlier words, Antonio was a wise man indeed. The glint in his eyes was not one of curiosity, but knowing, and the longer he stared, the more the rabbit realised he’d made up his mind. He knew precisely what the rabbit would say, and only asked so that it might confirm his suspicions.

“That is correct.” The rabbit answered regardless. “But tell me, how long have you known of us? And how is it that you believe in our existence, when you also follow the words of your God?”

“This has gotten awfully deep. And so soon.” Antonio remarked, looking back. “This morning we were the best of friends.”

“This morning, you were nothing more than a host.” The rabbit muttered low. “But now I- forgive me. It’s difficult to say.”

“Go on.” Antonio encouraged. “Please.”

The rabbit hesitated for an instant, and carefully made its way back to Antonio’s side. “The little magic Arthur gave you… it’s grown in such a short time. And you’ve conquered it.”

“Then you really are afraid.”

“A bit.” The rabbit confessed, bowing his head. “But only because I… because we’ve seen how you can behave. If you’re somehow able to oppose Arthur, and rival his magic, then...  I'm afraid my friends and I would have to do all we can to stop you.”

Antonio had already considered that unpleasant idea, and expressed his sympathies with a saddened smile. He wanted to tell the rabbit it would be fine, but Antonio couldn’t control his strange turns if he tried. There was no telling when or where they would resurface, or who would fall victim to his might.

“About what you asked before…” Antonio uttered softly, changing the subject. “I’ve known of you for almost five hundred years.”

“How?”

“Patience.”

The rabbit put an end to its squeaking, and climbed back onto Antonio’s lap. Once settled Antonio petted it with featherlight hands, then planted a kiss atop its head.

“I’ve seen the signs.” He eventually continued. “Sometimes Arturo’s clothing dips and pulls when it shouldn’t, as if something is sitting upon him. Other times I found objects had moved… not much to raise alarm, but enough to convince me that Arturo was never alone.”

“Even so… that doesn’t explain how you _know._ ”

“That’s simple. Arturo told me you exist.”

“And you believed in him so blindly? When others laughed and called him mad?”

Antonio smile faltered, then dropped, thinking back on centuries past. The endless screaming, the tears, and the high-pitched rattling of chains.

He and Francis were too young to understand back then, what it meant when France took England for its own. They only knew that it was home to a little boy, who claimed to see things many others could not.

Antonio often heard the insults though, the jibes of _pagan,_ _nuisance_ , _curse._ The French court had no patience for Arthur’s fantasies, and did whatever they could to beat it out of him fast. To banish whatever nonsense the vikings had fed him, and set their preferred beliefs in its place.

In retrospect they utterly failed, but Antonio could not find it in himself to laugh. Arthur’s childhood was a mash of battles and bruises, courtesy of his brothers and enemies combined, and all free time was spent at the cruel hands of his French invaders.

Worst of all however, Antonio could have prevented his fate. He could have admitted that he believed him, but in fear of receiving the same punishment, and upsetting Francis, Antonio selfishly held his tongue.

“Antonio…?”

“Forgive me.” Antonio blurted, shaking the images away. “I got distracted.”

“You’re in pain.”

“I’ve been worse.” Antonio replied with a weakened smile. After that he scooped the rabbit in his arms, closed his eyes, and gladly slipped into the comfort of silence. 

 

* * *

 

 With a trembling hand Arthur touched the dark stone wall, located at the far end of his cellar study. He couldn’t recall how long it had been since he locked himself away, to read books and deter his thoughts, but he knew that he needed help. And needed it fast.

 _“Come forth.”_ He managed between breaths, feeling the magic swell up in his palm. It bloomed and bubbled between his fingers like hot water, and all of a sudden burst, pooling through every crack in the stones. It spread and stretched up high, then froze, forming a clean, oval pane of glass. A mirror which soon held the reflection of another man.

“You called…?”

“ _Norway."_  Arthur gasped in relief, pulling up a chair. “Oh God it’s been too long.”

“Indeed.” The man replied with a wry smile. “So long that you choose to abandon my other name.”

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t be.” Norway contradicted with a lighter voice. “It’s simpler this way.”

For better or worse, Arthur had to agree. “How’re things your end?”

“Same as ever. Sverige and Danmark are at war.”

_"Again?”_

“It’s all they ever do.” Norway grimaced. “But I have a feeling this one will end soon. Last year Sverige’s King turned mad, his brother took his place. That one signed an agreement with Danmark’s King but before you know it, the weapons are out, and they’re slaughtering one another once more.”

“Sounds tough.” Arthur remarked, leaning in. “... Perhaps I have called at an inappropriate time?”

To that Norway cracked a laugh, and wiped a stray tear from his eye. “Arthur, there is never a good time for us to talk. Not only because we do so via magic, but because you and I are doomed to suffer at the hands of our neighbours.”

“I suppose.” Arthur replied gloomily. “But still-”

“You look tired.” Norway pressed in a worried tone. “Worse than I ever recall. Dare I ask what trouble you’ve landed in now?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

Arthur’s teeth nipped his lower lip hard. Sweaty palms gripped the arms of his chair, and he bowed his head low in regret.

“… I accidentally passed my magic to another.”

 

* * *

 

 Through sheer willpower alone, Norway barely resisted the urge to leave. As Arthur explained his supernatural dilemma his mood turned from bad to worse, and not just because of the act itself, but because he was partly to blame.

It was Norway who first met his magical friends, and it was him who nurtured the boy’s unusual talents. Whilst Denmark taught him the ways of the sword, and the bow, Norway secretly trained him in body and mind. He helped Arthur write spells, create runes, and avoid unwanted possessions from violent ghosts. In short he sent the boy straight down the heathen path, and with no hope of turning back.

“Let me get this straight.” Norway groaned, rubbing his palm to his forehead. “You -in a drunken, stupid state- gave magic to the Spanish Empire, one of the most religious lands known to man?!”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur replied, choking on his fear. “I used a spell without thinking-”

“You were _drunk!_ ” Norway snapped, whipping his own hand from his face. “How many times have I _warned_ you? Told you to only use magic when sober?!”

“I don’t know!!” Arthur cried in dismay. “Hundreds, maybe thousands of times-!”

“And still you didn’t listen!”

“I can’t apologise enough!” Arthur wheezed, rubbing at the tear which rolled down his cheek. Honestly the last thing he wanted to do was cry, but in his weakness he started to crumble, and hunched up tight in his chair. “His people already thought he was possessed, and now I’ve condemned him to hell!!”

“He’d have gone that way even without your help.”

Arthur squinted hard, wiping his blotchy, red cheeks. “What d’you mean?”

“I’ve heard stories.” Norway admitted, looking away. “They say the Iberian brothers might conquer us all, if we’re not careful. And that they’ve got a keen eye on you.”

“I don’t care.” Arthur grumbled in defeat. “Tonio can do what he wants after this.”

“I assume you two are-...”

Arthur desperately awaited Norway’s response, but nothing more left his lips. All the anger and authority had gone with it, replaced by a wide eyed man, staring at a spot over Arthur’s shoulder.

At first Norway thought it was a trick of the eye, or weakening magic, but sure enough someone entered Arthur’s study without their knowing. Someone with far too much prowess over his newfound magic, and enough confidence to challenge Norway with a glare.

“Hello there.”

_"Tonio?!”_

Arthur flew from his seat, scrambling against the cold, stone floor. He didn’t know how long Antonio had been there, how he could stand to enter a room all his crew openly feared, but he recognised the horrible pull of fear it had over his body. How it strained and screamed in his ears, and sent him dizzy in absolute fright.

To make matters worse Norway left amidst it all. In hindsight Arthur knew he did so with good intentions, but in the spur of the moment Arthur felt terribly alone, afraid, and backed off when Antonio knelt by his side.

“Y-You have to go.” Arthur asked. “It’s not safe.”

“Arturo.” Antonio started, outstretching his hand. “Don’t be scared. It’s me-”

“Please go. ” Arthur urged again. “Don’t you see what I’ve done? What’s become of us?”

“It’s only magic.” Antonio dismissed.

 _“I’ve ruined you!!”_ Arthur let out an anguished scream, digging his fingernails into the stones below. “Surely you must have figured that out by now?!”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it _does_!” Arthur sobbed louder then. “Everyone expects the worst from me; foolish, heretic bastard England, but not _you!_ You’re far better than that, than _me!_ ”

“Don’t say that-"

“I promised to save you.” Arthur countered weakly. “And now- now I’ve made things wo-!!”

Antonio shut him up the only way he could, claiming Arthur’s lips firmly with his own. When the flustered nuisance began to wiggle and squeak he wrapped an arm about Arthur’s waist, and pulled him onto his lap.

After that Antonio bided his time, tasting alcohol and fruit upon his tongue. He caressed Arthur’s cheek with his free hand, and only pulled away once his pulse had calmed, and the tears no longer fell.

“Arturo…” He breathed, ghosting his lips over Arthur’s all the while. “I don’t want you to regret this for a moment, understand? I’m not angry about what you did.”

“But I-!” Arthur tensed when Antonio kissed him harder next, rendering him a panting mess. “… Tonio. Y-You really should be angry. I don’t mind-”

“Do you _want_ me to be angry…?” Antonio warned.

“No. Never mind.” Arthur blurted. “This is fine.”

“Good.” Antonio replied, flashing that brilliant smile. “Now let’s get you to your room-”

“So soon..?”

Antonio blinked, running his thumb over Arthur’s cheek. Beneath the wet streaks Arthur’s skin broke into an obvious blush, whilst he wriggled in Antonio’s lap to get comfortable.

“... I like it here.”

“As do I.” Antonio laughed, granting him a tender kiss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points to anyone who can guess the war Norway is referring to, and what year Gatito is currently set in. ;)


	18. Flint

 Antonio knew something like this would happen. Everything had been too perfect, too calm, and as somebody wise once said: All things came in threes.

“I thought they said ‘all _good_ things come in threes’?” Arthur wondered aloud, slipping on his usual coat. Whichever it was, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to get the dock supervisors off his back, or stop Thomas from coming in his room every five minutes, each time with a worsening frown.

“How long will you be gone?” Antonio asked, perching on the edge of the bed. Beside him the rabbit curled up fast asleep, and drew its wings over its body for warmth.

“I don’t know.” Arthur replied. “An hour or two, at least.”

“ _At least?_ ”

“Tonio, love, it's work. I can’t help it.”

“I know. But it’s almost five now.” Antonio stated, rising from his seat. “Are you coming back here for dinner?”

Arthur couldn’t promise either way. There was no telling how long a job would be, and what would follow suit. Sometimes men called him out to surprise him with a feast, whilst other times he was forced into a chair, and interrogated about past mistakes. All he could do was see to the matter fast, and pray no one planned on keeping him long.

“... It’s getting dark outside. The weather might turn again.” Antonio murmured, changing the subject. After that he joined Arthur by the door, and straightened the lapels of his coat. “Will you be warm enough?”

“I reckon so.”

“That’s a no.” Antonio surmised. He wandered to the wardrobe for a rummage, and came back with a charcoal, cotton scarf, which he proceeded to wrap about Arthur’s neck.

In most circumstances Arthur would’ve complained, but as Antonio draped the fabric round he kept quiet. Inwardly he enjoyed the fussing and the attention, and smiled when Antonio’s face turned stern. Far too focused upon his work.

“... This is nice.”

“Yeah. I picked it to match your coat.”

“I’m not talking about the scarf.” Arthur chuckled, ruffling Antonio’s hair. “I meant this. Us. I could get used to it.”

“Me too.” Antonio replied with a nod, and dove in for a gentle kiss. He slipped an arm around Arthur’s waist to keep him steady, and laughed sweetly when they parted for air. Apparently any kind of intimacy, however brief, was enough to throw an englishman off balance. In fact it jammed their tongues as well, and after a few stuttered words Arthur cleared his throat, and patted a hand to Antonio’s chest.

“Good show. Now release me.”

“Why?”

 _"Why?_ Well I uh… Because you...”

Antonio waited with the utmost patience, disarming him with that hopeful stare. Most people’s eyes pissed Arthur off, but those wonderful, vibrant greens always had a knack for charming his mind. Making him a forgetful, vulnerable mess.

Antonio could tell him to skip out the window and he’d have done it, but before he could contemplate that stupid idea, a second arm snaked around his waist, and brought his attention back to the room.

“What’re you doing?” Arthur asked, straightening up.

“I thought it was obvious?”

“If it was obvious I wouldn’t ask.” Arthur replied, watching Antonio crease up in amusement. “Now let go.”

Antonio’s arms refused to budge. If anything they seemed to tighten when Arthur squirmed in their hold, whilst Antonio nuzzled into Arthur’s scarf.

“You should stay here, with me.”

“Tonio, you know I would if I could.”

Antonio knew that all too well. Even so it didn’t stop him trying his luck. With another airy laugh he pecked Arthur on the cheek, then moved in close to his ear.

“C’mon. Your crew can handle whatever's wrong on their own.”

“They can.” Arthur agreed with a shudder. “But I have been called for, and- don’t _bite_ you bloody imbecile!”

Antonio pulled back to examine Arthur’s earlobe, which had turned the same fetching pink as his cheeks. “That was no good?”

“Too good!” Arthur shot back, jabbing his index finger to Antonio’s chest. “Honestly man, yesterday you were innocent, hopelessly _sweet_ and now you- how d’you even know such things?!”

“I was a virgin, not an idiot.” Antonio replied simply. “Although I owe that last part to my brother. He said that usually works.”

Arthur’s eyes rolled back in dismay, but a smile crept upon his face regardless. “That’s adorable. Truly. But there’s no need for you to go to such... intimate measures. I will take full responsibility-”

“We’re partners, aren’t we?”

Arthur blinked. “But of course.”

“Then we’re equals.”

“Yes.” Arthur agreed. “And I'll treat you with every ounce of respect-”

“That’s not what I want.”

“Then what?”

Antonio leant in for a silk-soft kiss, and cupped Arthur’s arse through his coat. “I want you.”

 

* * *

 

 When Arthur and his crew left the tavern, it fell into João’s capable, but not-so-trustworthy hands. Without a care he sampled every wine, then some more, and only when he found the bottle he liked did he shove it under his arm, and head back across the room.

“Here you go, you lusty bastard.” He declared, setting it upon the table where Antonio sat. “A drink to your brave request?”

“Ssh.” Antonio half scolded, half laughed, then poured the wine into both of their cups. “Arturo agreed that we were partners, and equals. I thought there was no harm in asking.”

“A terrible mistake.”

“How so?”

“You asked him when he was sober.” João declared, grumbling as he slumped in his seat. “You forget, that kind of Brit sees sex as a threat, a moment of vulnerability. When drunk however, they will spread every limb to your command.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“It’s not.” João confessed with a grin. “You have to take their interest first. They still have pride, even then.”

“Are you talking from experience?”

“A few. Most of which I regret.” João grimaced, shuffling about to get comfortable. “There was this one woman, possibly the strangest, who would sing sea shanties whenever I came close to her lady garden. I was so confused that I made an excuse and left.”

“That’s understandable, yet cruel.”

“She shagged the nearest sailor she could find.” João deadpanned. “But anyway, this other woman I met... She was the youngest of the butcher’s three daughters. Good trade, good lass. I thought.”

Antonio snickered without realising, already enraptured by his brother’s tales. “What happened there?”

“Well.” João began, and suddenly stopped. His eyes became distant for a moment, and Antonio could only imagine the horrors he had seen. “We start at the tavern, get drunk. She leads me to her room that night, promising she’s home alone. Of course that couldn't be further from the truth.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” João groans. “Turns out all _three_ sisters were there, squealing about Portuguese beef. I don’t know if they planned on eating or sleeping with me, and I sure as hell didn’t stay long enough to find out.”

Antonio threw back his head with a laugh, and nearly toppled from his chair in the process. “You certainly attract the weird ones!”

“Says you.” João remarked, smirking hard. “God knows how you found Artur’s face, what with those eyebrows of his. Hell, are you even certain it was him you slept with?”

“Of course.” Antonio scoffed. “I went by the voice.”

João raised his cup to that, and clinked it to Antonio’s in a wordless toast. It was nice to see that Antonio still shared his sense of humour, no matter how often their people pried them apart.

“I miss this y’know. Just you and me.”

“I do too.” Antonio confessed. “Times have been hard for us both.”

João couldn’t have put it better himself. For as long as he could recall their courts were pulled this way and that, influenced by other kingdom and their riches. As a result neither brother lived in one place for too long, which made writing both an impossible, and pointless endeavour.

“We should make the most of this, before they return.” João proposed in an oddly serious tone. “So tell me how you are, truthfully.”

“Happier than I have been.” Antonio replied, and that was that. Whatever else he had to say was conveyed in his actions, rather than his words, and in the weary smile he cast João’s way.

“I’m glad for you.” João answered. “For both of you. You’re well matched.”

“We’re a disaster.” Antonio laughed. “But I enjoy it.”

João wanted to believe the same, but Antonio’s dry smile soon returned. He glared at his wine as if it had offended him, and wrinkled his nose in disdain. “Antonio… is there something else you want to talk about?”

“No-” Antonio quickly lied, then stilled his tongue. “Well, actually. Yes. What do you think of my appearance?”

“Your appearance?”

Antonio nodded, pushing on. “You and I... people think we look alike, yet we don’t. You’re the one they call manly, and impressive. Whereas I’m always mistaken for a woman... Even Arturo’s crew did it at first.”

“Ah.” João visibly winced. “That’s what you get for being the pretty one.”

“Don’t you start as well-”

“It’s true and you know it.” João sighed. “You’ve got big, bright eyes, and a nice smile. Your arse is shaplier than any woman’s I’ve seen, and you carry yourself with such grace and charm that- well, it’s not hard to make that mistake.”

“But I’m a man.” Antonio huffed.

“And people are stupid.” João concluded with a laugh. “For what it’s worth I think you look just fine, and I’m sure Artur feels the same.”

“But Arturo’s the problem.” Antonio finally explained. “One moment he’s perfectly normal, and in the next he handles me like a piece of glass. He’s got me tucked up in his tavern like I’m his wife, and though he’s tender, and nice I just- I dunno’. I don’t think he remembers precisely what I am. What I’m capable of.”

“... With all due respect, you’re starting to sound like an angry wife.”

_“João.”_

“I get it.” João quickly continued. “But what exactly can you do?”

Antonio responded with a half-arsed shrug, and gulped the last of his wine. “All the while my court pretty me up with jewels and decent clothes, I can’t expect things to change... So maybe I should just attack. Take over his land.”

“That’s extreme.” João scoffed. “But highly effective.”  

“Keelhauling then?”

“I thought you loved him.”

“That last one was a joke.” Antonio chuckled, grabbing the bottle to refill his cup. After that he propped his feet on the nearby chair, and tilted back his head with a sigh. “Things were different back then. _Better._ ”

“I don’t follow.”

Antonio’s palm slapped the table hard. Not out of anger towards João, but in a sudden, wine-fuelled epiphany.

“And I just remembered something.”

“Dare I ask?”

“You can. If you like.” Antonio replied, shooting up out of his seat. “But it’s quicker for us to act. Let’s go.”

“Go where?!”

Antonio didn’t feel inclined to explain. Instead he latched onto João’s wrist fast, and hauled him in the direction of the stairs.

 

* * *

 

 Arthur didn’t return in time for dinner. In fact he was the last one home of his crew; dragging himself through the door like stray. In short it had been a long, awful night, with no ale to quench his thirst, nor good food to warm his belly. His fingers still trembled from the cold, and he could barely feel the wooden banister as he made his way upstairs, deciding to head straight to bed.

He wanted to be warm, at peace. He wanted to apologise for being so late, and curl beside Antonio in a blissful sleep. There were other things he wanted as well, but when he opened his bedroom door he forgot them, and his jaw fell slack in shock.

A wonderful smell hit his nostrils first. The scent of alcohol, warm meat, _home._ Several candles were dotted about the room, highlighting a splendid spread of food, and the fireplace roared pleasantly to his left. The bed looked inviting as ever, thanks to the extra blankets and velvet sheets, and best of all were those sharp green eyes, which caught his attention in a simple glance.

“You’re back.” Antonio spoke in that lovely purr.

“And you’re…” Arthur swallowed hard, forgetting his words. At first Antonio appeared quite ordinary; his usual, beautiful self, who preferred to be naked in bed. But as he stole a glimpse of his head Arthur stumbled, and practically slammed the door shut behind him. “Your hair. It’s…”

Antonio merely smiled, and ran a hand through the short curls atop his head. It was a small, but significant change, and one he’d been planning for a while. Whenever he tried to cut it back in Spain, the court would always intervene, telling him long hair suited him best.

“I fancied a change.” He relayed in a lazy tone. “It was always getting in the way, don’t you think?”

Arthur was thinking too much, too fast, and his mind went blank as he perched upon the bed. Long haired Antonio always was, and would be, stunning, but this one was different. Divine _._ This Antonio hadn’t shown his face in decades, and all of a sudden Arthur felt weak in the knees. His head burst with the colours and the music of his court, and the jovial spirit of 1509.

Henry and Katherine were married then, to his delight, as it meant Arthur would gain a companion as well. That handsome, sharp witted Antonio, whose visits were so rare, yet thoroughly enjoyed. His presence sparked the court with new life, whether it be through his stories or pleasant ways, and in the same breath he sent young Arthur wild. Turned him into a pale, flustered bundle of late-teen hormones, who awoke with more erections than he cared to admit.

Arthur had always loved Antonio in a way, before Spain was Spain, and times turned dark, but in that year his love became deep. _Real._ He saw his face in every crowd, every dream, and that Tonio became his everything, and more. Simply put, he was his first and only love, and seeing him now, thanks to nothing but a haircut, Arthur was uncertain of what to say.

“Come here.” Antonio laughed, drawing a stunned Arthur into his arms. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“I’m not-! I mean, you didn’t.” Arthur blurted in protest. “I love it. I love this. I love  _you_.”

“And I love you.” Antonio beamed, plucking Arthur's hat from his head. “Welcome home.”

 


	19. Beryl

 “Ugh. That dinner was bloody marvellous.” Arthur declared, stretching until his palms touched the headboard above. Beside him Antonio hummed in agreement, preoccupied with the noise outside. The rowdy fights and cheers from the local taverns, still brimming with energy and life.

“Look at us, all tucked up in bed after our meal.” Arthur continued, glancing Antonio’s way. “It’s so ordinary, so human that I-... I guess I’m kinda’ jealous.”

“Jealous?” Antonio echoed.

“Yeah. Of that lot, out there.” Arthur admitted, jerking his head towards the window. “They go to work, have a few drinks at the tavern, then head home to their nice, little families. Year after year they repeat it, unaware of how lucky they are.”

“I’d rather you didn’t return to me drunk.” Antonio deadpanned. “But I understand. I’ve thought about such things as well. What I’d do if I were one of them.”

“Oh?” Arthur’s interest piqued. “And what would you do, exactly?”

“Farming.” Antonio replied with a sheepish grin. “I’d get a nice little place in the countryside, with plenty of fields to grow my crops. It’s a big step down from where I am now, but... I like it.”

“I think it’s wonderful.” Arthur praised. “I enjoy growing plants for my potions. Perhaps we could work together?”

“What? You and me, living on a farm?”

“But of course! We can raise some animals too, for food and all that nonsense.” Arthur added, grinning wide. “Just picture it, after a morning of sorting the crops, we let the animals out to graze, then have ourselves a good old shag in the hay.”

“If it was up to you we’d be having sex all the time.”

“Perhaps.”

Antonio’s eyes rolled back in defeat. To be honest it wasn’t the worst plan in the world, a pleasant thought to keep them going. “It can be our dream.”

“But dreams aren’t real.” Arthur complained. “And I want that-”

“We could never make it work here, and you know it.” Antonio sighed softly, brushing a hand against Arthur’s cheek. “England and Spain are far too strained in these times, but in the future things might change. Who knows?”

“The entire world will have to shift before then.” Arthur sulked. “You and your brother are far too strong.”

“Our apologies.” Antonio snorted.

“But it’s not just you!” Arthur quickly resumed. “Francis is a prick, the northern lot keep warring, the Ottoman Empire is slowly creeping this way, and- let’s be honest, I’m practically doomed. My best option is to stick with you, and become your miserable, grey, rainy retreat.”

Antonio blinked once. Then twice. “You would join me?”

“If it were possible, yes.” Arthur replied in earnest. “Unfortunately however, I am Britain. England. Tiny arsehole of the world. My brothers are forever bickering over my head, my new Queen can’t get a moment’s peace-”

“And your religion’s all over the place.” Antonio finished, poking out his tongue. No matter what way one cut it, he was right, but the talk of religion caused Arthur to gasp, and scramble out of bed in a hurry.

“You just reminded me!”

“Of what?”

“You’ll see!” Arthur called back, whilst Antonio forced himself to look away. Usually he found Arthur attractive, but in the moonlight his pale, naked body turned even whiter. Everything shook when he ran, arse included, and Antonio wondered if he could be seen from the window. Dashing about like a perverted ghost.

“Aha, here it is!”

“Oh I can’t wait.” Antonio scoffed, raising his eyes when Arthur returned to the bed. Soon after Arthur took his hand, and placed a wad of folded black velvet in his palm.

“Here. For you.”

“You got me a gift?”

“Sort of.” Arthur mumbled, scratching the back of his head. “It’s not a present per se, but you’ll see.”

Antonio’s eyes drifted to the small bundle in his hand. He slowly peeled the fabric back with his thumb and forefinger, and upon spying a flash of silver he let go, and turned to Arthur in disbelief. Without his realising Arthur had found his rosary, or at least the crucifix, and partnered it with a new chain of black onyx beads.

“I thought I’d lost this.” He choked out first. “After that night in the spare room, when I attacked you-”

“You only broke it.” Arthur corrected. “All I could find was the cross, and a few of the old red beads, so I kept a hold on it with the intention of fixing it. Of course things happened, I got delayed, but tonight I bumped into an old friend and we-”

Antonio cut him off right there, tackling him to the bed with a heated kiss. He slipped his tongue between Arthur’s lips to deepen it, and even when they parted he kept their faces close, nuzzling noses with a loving moan. “Thank you so much. Truly. Now I can stop making excuses to my brother.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You didn’t notice?” Antonio asked, pulling back. “João and I have matching rosaries, only his chain was a different colour. He had them made for us a couple of centuries ago.”

“Oh.”

That was certainly news to Arthur. He always knew that the two brothers wore them, but it didn’t interest him to learn where they came from, nor did he ask for a closer look.

“It’s alright. I didn’t expect you to know.” Antonio chuckled, placing his rosary about his neck. “You’re far more interested in the occult, aren’t you?”

“God seems like a decent bloke-”

“ _Arthur._ ”

“I mean it!” Arthur laughed nervously, ducking when Antonio’s hand looked set to slap. “And I go to Mass whenever I can!”

“Whenever you can be bothered.” Antonio sighed. “Although I’m hardly one to talk. You’ve completely ruined my prayer schedule these last few days.”

“I’ve ruined a fair bit more than that.”

Antonio couldn’t argue there, but at the same time he did disagree. In their short, turbulent time together, Arthur had managed a little bit of good. Just a slither, a barely-there scrap, but enough to earn Antonio’s respect.

“You’ve done well.” He settled with a smile. “Now let’s sleep, before it’s too late.”

 

* * *

 

“I wonder... how many days have passed?”

Peter looked up from the plate in his hands, drying it slowly with a cloth. Since morning came João had been sluggish, _odd,_ and rambled beneath his breath. Sometimes he laughed when no joke had been told, and quickly apologised for acting so strange, before making the same mistake again.

“How many days, sir?”

“Only João. Never sir.” João stressed, scrubbing the plates in the sink. Water splashed about as he went, and for a minute Peter chose to say nothing. After all, he’d seen such sights before. Countless mood swings, and flurries of insanity.

Many moons ago Arthur’s crew was much larger, but some were unable to brave the world. One by one they succumbed to their grief, and met their ends in stupid, tragic ways.

But such was life, Peter came to realise. Arthur only took in the most helpless of souls, and in doing so gave them a chance to move on, whichever way that may be.

“Peter?”

“Sorry.” Peter blurted outright, unaware that he’d drifted in the first place. “I was thinking.”

“Indeed.” João remarked, raising his brows. “And nothing good, judging by those forehead wrinkles.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. Your hair’s in the way.” João teased, flicking water at Peter’s face. Upon doing so Peter yelped and stepped back, using his plate as a shield.

“Why would you do that?!”

“You looked too serious. I didn’t like it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And there you go!” João declared, raising his hand. “You english people, I swear! Constantly apologising even if there’s no need to!”

“What else would you have me say?” laughed Peter, unable to deny that fact.

“Something exciting.” João proposed. “Tell me something… _interesting_ about your men. Artur too.”

“You mean something incriminating?”

“Exactly that.”

Peter considered the idea, but no more. Arthur would be in a terrible mood if he complied, and some of the crew might try to pickle him in a barrel. “I shouldn’t.”

“Oh go on. I wouldn’t tell.”

“Arthur would know. He always does.”

“Well Artur shouldn’t- wait... where _is_ Artur, anyway?” João asked, staring at the ceiling. “Are those two still asleep?”

“Oh no. They’ve been up for a while.” Peter replied. “He and your brother are working in the cellar. His study to be precise.”

João’s faced quickly paled, then turned sour. He’d poked his head inside that room once before, and never, ever again. Something about the air there set him on edge, and chilled him through to the bones.

“Leave them be.” He advised, swallowing hard. “I’m sure they’re having a wonderful time.”

 

 

* * *

 

 “Let’s run through this again.” Arthur proposed, circling the desk at the centre of the room. Upon its surface sat every magic book he owned, and slumped beside them was a bored looking Antonio, who failed to share his urgency on the matter. “What’s the first rule about magic?”

“We don’t talk about it?”

“Wrong!” Arthur snapped, slapping a long, wooden stick against his palm. A wand he had yet to finish crafting. “You must use it with care, and consideration.”

“Ohh right.” Antonio mocked. “You mean don’t use it whilst drunk, and force it into people’s bodies?”

“That’s harsh.”

“But not wrong.”

“Not wrong.” Arthur surrendered reluctantly, perching on the opposite side of the desk. So far he had spent an hour trying to teach the ways of magic, but Antonio was too tired and distracted to care.  

“Alright, enough of that.” Arthur chose to press on. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine, I guess.” Antonio shrugged, looking about the room. Along the walls each candle burned with a purple flame, whilst the shelves burst with coloured bottles and bones. A heavy set of black curtains hung at the farthest end, at the same wall where Arthur had spoken with Norway, but besides that there was not much to note. It was everything one would expect of a creepy, magician’s lair.

“... You’re not anxious at all?” Arthur probed. “Normally people are too afraid to stay in here long. They say there’s an atmosphere-”

“Which I definitely feel.” Antonio cut in. “But I dunno’. It doesn’t bother me. Must be the effect of your magic.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you might be stronger than you realise.” Arthur surmised, tapping the wand to his palm. “Your body appears to have taken the magic just fine, brilliantly in fact. It’s incredible.”

“Really?”

“I’m not in a position to lie.”

“That’s true.” Antonio laughed, sitting up. He propped both arms against the desk shortly after, and scanned the numerous books laid out before him. Most of the texts were English, naturally, but in the midst of them were books of Latin and French origin, and others covered in ancient runes. Some were written in tongues Antonio couldn't place, whilst the remainder showcased beautiful illustrations. Workings of anatomy and constellations.

“Have you read all of these?” He wondered, making eye contact.

“Several times.” Arthur simply replied, and got back to pacing the room. “You’re free to borrow them, if you’d like.”

Antonio liked the idea very much, even if his attitude towards the lesson said otherwise. It was a chance to learn about Arthur’s odd friends, after all, and feed a long standing curiosity. He could find out what was supposedly wicked, so  _foul_ about magical practice, and whatever it was that the Church seemed to fear.

That said, he was curious about the room as well. The wall at the far side repeatedly garnered his attention, and after a few glances Arthur cleared his throat, and likewise turned in its direction.

“Is something the matter?”

Antonio shook his head, and opened up the nearest book. A French one bound in a garish blue leather, and adorned with gold floral trims. He didn’t plan on reading it at all, and Arthur knew it, but still he resumed his act, scanning each page with false interest.

“Francis rarely mentions the use of magic in his land.” Antonio spoke aloud. “I wonder if it’s any good.”

“It’s French.” Arthur remarked, leaving it at that. “Now back to us, and all of this. Surely you must have questions about your magic?”

“Sort of.” Antonio answered. “But for the most part I’m content. It does not hurt me, nor pose a threat.”

“And yet…?”

Antonio’s eyes slowly rose from the book. He welcomed Arthur’s challenge with a hardened stare, and cast his gaze back to the farthest wall. “There’s something I’ve noticed. Or my body has, at least.”

“Do tell.” Arthur encouraged.

“This isn’t it.” Antonio obliged, gesturing to the space around them. “There’s much more to your study than you let on. And you’ve hidden it beyond that wall.”

“Very good.” Arthur praised in turn. He approached the wall with a constant, proud smile, and prodded the cool surface with a fingertip. “It appears we can proceed as planned.”

“We can go through?”

“You’d only try to sneak in if I said no.” Arthur scoffed, beckoning with a jerk of his head. “Now come along, we haven’t got all day.”

Antonio’s gut told him _no, bad idea_ , whilst his feet said _do it,_ _please_. For all he knew they were about to die, become victims to a trap or a curse, but still his chest pounded hard in elation. He watched Arthur’s hand burst into bright, white flame, and imagined the power, the heat. The sensation of flames flicking between his fingers, yet never burning through the skin.

“That’s amazing.”

“It’s nothing.” Arthur quietly boasted, pressing the flames to the stone.

 


	20. Moldavite

 It was funny, Antonio realised, how fascination could turn to fear. How Arthur’s white fire appeared sinister, and pure, back and forth like a gentle tide. It was also funny how it spread across the wall, first like water, smoke, then vines, before shaping into a beautiful wild flower.  

“Are you sure about this?” Arthur asked, looking Antonio up and down. “You can still turn back. Even now.”

Antonio wondered if he really could. The longer he stared at the fire, the harder it took him, reeling him in with its hot, white hook. It flooded his mind, then his veins, and for an instant he could feel it. His magic.

Only, it wasn’t his, Antonio noted. It was sort of borrowed, and sort of forced, happily mingling with his blood and bones.

“Tonio. Are you in there?”

“Sorry.” Antonio laughed, catching a glimpse of the white flames in Arthur’s eyes. Like sea foam bursting against the rocks. “Should I prepare before we go?”

“You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.” Arthur spoke with confidence. “But a word of advice before we do.”

“Yes?”

Arthur nodded to his rosary. “Whatever happens, don't lose that.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

“That’s the spirit.” Arthur replied, shoving Antonio into the wall.

 

* * *

 

 A great wave smashed across the deck, dragging over the wood in gargled screams. The sounds of course, came from men, not water, and every cry made Antonio wince, and clutch the side of the galleon tight. The rain beat hard upon him all the while, making it harder to stay aboard, but Antonio dug his fingernails down until they split, happier to bleed than drown.

“This is hopeless!” Called a familiar, strained voice -João- who seized the helm with gritted teeth. “But this is what you fucking get for being greedy!!”

“What d’you mean?!”

“Just look at us!!”

Antonio did. From over the railing he saw a great fleet, presumably his, dispersed by storm and fire ships combined. Whoever he was battling was both fortunate, and reckless, whilst he was quickly crumbling, soon to be beat.

“I don’t understand.” He gasped, ignoring the dull throb in his fingers. “There was a wall, and the white fire, Arturo made it-”

“Now’s not the time for your delusions!” João snapped. “You got us in this shit, so decide: push on or retreat?!”

Antonio bit his lower lip hard, silenced by the ache in his chest. All he wanted was answers, warmth, whilst his heart longed for something else. It wanted to see the opposition, their flags, but before he could stand another wave came, and sent him hurtling across the deck.

 

* * *

 

 

 Antonio never thought he’d say it, but he was glad to see those purple candles. Feel the cool stone through his shirt, and listen to Arthur half laughing, half wheezing by his side, as they lay sprawled across the floor.

“It never ceases to amaze me.” Arthur declared, sitting upright. “The more often I pass through that wall, the wilder my dreams become.”

“Dreams?”

Antonio curled each hand into a fist. As he did so his fingertips stang, but when he rose them he saw no blood, nor splintered nails. His hair and clothes were perfectly dry, but with each breath he could taste gunpowder and sea salt, faint relics of his brief naval war.

“Forgive me for not warning you.” Arthur explained, peering down at his bewildered love. “Visions are common during magic travel, but there’s no telling what you’ll encounter.”

“I see.” Antonio replied, grateful when the pain subsided. After that he managed to sit up, and stare into the corridor ahead. A longer, ominous path, with numerous bolted doors on either side. “So it wasn’t real.”

“No.” Arthur confirmed, noting Antonio’s clenching hands. “But you look troubled, love. What did you see?”

“S’not so much what I saw. But what I heard, and felt.” Antonio explained, uncurling his fingers slowly. “I was on a ship, part of a large fleet, I think. And João was with me too.”

“You fought him?” Arthur gasped.

“No. He was at the helm.” Antonio continued. “Kept yelling at me to make decisions. I reckon we were losing a battle.”

“Definitely a dream then.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because it’s impossible.” Arthur stated. “First and foremost, you’re rivals, not allies. You have no reason to fight together.”

“But we do have common enemies.”

“Don’t we all?” Arthur dismissed. “The point is, even if you _were_ allied, João would be aboard his own ship, with his own fleet. Not sailing yours as if he’s a member of the crew.”

Antonio considered the idea with a hum, and of all things, began to laugh. “What a ridiculous idea,” he began, slapping a hand to his thigh. “João would hate having to serve under me!”

“And yet, it could easily happen.”

Antonio paused then, arching a brow. “But you just said it's impossible.”

“Which it is, for now.” Arthur clarified, standing up. “The future however... that’s different. Royal marriages have connected us all, but especially your two crowns. A succession crisis could bring João down, leaving him open to-”

“Enough. Please.” Antonio begged, rubbing his forehead with a grumble. “I don’t want to think about that. About him suffering.”

“Nor do I, love.” Arthur sighed, helping Antonio to his feet. “But magic makes us do these things. Gives us a vision so real, so _alive,_ that we’re convinced it might just happen.”

“That makes me dislike it even more.” Antonio complained. “Teach me about better, useful things. Like potions, and the fire you created.”

“Very well, follow me then.” Arthur instructed, heading to the first door on the right.

 

* * *

 

_"See you later!”_

_“Don’t get bored without us!”_

“I’ll do my best.” João deadpanned, waving the crew off with an anxious smile. As the winds picked up he shivered, half hid in his cloak, and wondered if this was how all mothers felt, waving their families goodbye.

Knowing Peter was with them didn’t help, but Thomas had promised to stay by his side, as he always did when Arthur was away.

And speaking of that man, João mused, Arthur had yet to surface from the cellar with his brother. Not that it was a problem per se, he liked his privacy, and romance was the last thing he wanted in his face.

In fact all he craved was silence. He wanted to watch the scrolling skies, think of nothing, and pretend he was an ordinary man. So with that in mind he waddled outside, shut the door, and paced to a small fire pit in the street. He held his palms to the heat with a soft hum, pulled them back, then produced a long smoking pipe from beneath his cloak.

“Perhaps taking this was a step too far.” João considered, lighting it by the flames, but it was the closest he’d get to its owner’s touch. The closest he’d get to those calloused hands, which would tightly pinch the stem, and to those miserable, tight pursed lips, which João managed to soften every now and then.

It was the closest he’d get to a kiss, João realised, and the taste of tobacco, ale, _home._ Of late nights, skin to skin, and strong hands deep in his hair.

João hadn’t known that part long, to be fair, but knew it well enough to miss the warmth, and think fondly of those pleasant days.

 

* * *

 

 “Welcome to the potions room.” Arthur began, extending his arms either side. “Not much to see, or expect. Cauldron in the centre, ingredients at the back and sides.”

Antonio found himself nodding slowly, taking in the small, yet curious room. Unlike the study there were no tricks or hidden doors, just four normal, candlelit walls, stacked high with wooden shelves. In the very middle sat a fat, black cauldron, and beside it a little table of tools.

“Do you use this place often?”

“Only when required.” Arthur replied. “But first, there’s something you need.”

“Which is?”

Arthur turned to face the door, where several black hooded cloaks hung in a row. “Gotta’ dress to get in the mood.”

“Arturo no-”

“Arturo yes.” Arthur replied, holding out two cloaks. “You want to learn magic, don’t you?”

 

* * *

  
  
 With pops and deep, rippling glugs, the cauldron boiled to life. A great fire crackled beneath it, whilst Arthur hunched over the nearby table, attempting to chop a strange brown root.

“You’d make a horrible executioner.” Antonio observed, as a mangled clump flew off the table mid-cut, and bounced across the floor. “Should I take over?”

“No thank you, Mother Tonio.” Arthur huffed. “These blasted forest roots are always a nuisance.”

As were the mushrooms, and the weeds before that, Antonio noted with a smile. In fact Arthur had an excuse for everything, blaming the candlelight, his cloak, even the air for his terrible knife skills.

“Let me show you. Please.” Antonio urged softly, pressing his torso flush to Arthur’s back. “You need to take it slowly.”

“I could say the same to you.” Arthur countered. “You’re very, very close.”

Antonio rolled his eyes, but said nothing, and covered Arthur’s hands with his own. With gentle strokes he guided Arthur’s hand, and the knife, and managed to salvage the remainder of the root. “If you were on a battlefield, I’d praise your technique. But here you have to be careful.”

“Right, right.”

“And don’t sulk either.” Antonio added. “One day you’ll get the hang of it.”

One day sounded like a decade, or even a century, but at that moment Arthur didn’t mind. He could happily stay with Antonio like this, and let him do all the work, whilst Arthur quietly enjoyed his touch.

“I should teach you to cook as well.” Antonio mentioned as they went along. He propped his chin on Arthur’s shoulder when he grunted, and gave his cheek a kiss to quieten his complaints. “It’ll be fun. Just you and me.”

“Depends.” Arthur replied in haste. “Do you really trust me that much?”

Antonio did, for better or worse, and responded with another soft kiss. They worked their way through some unusual cloves, crushing them with the flat of the knife, until Antonio broke the silence with a forced, playful hum.

“You still haven’t given me an answer.”

“About what?”

“About what I said yesterday, before you left.”

Arthur cocked a brow, confused, then felt a wave of heat blossom over his cheeks. All of a sudden he could recall the lot; Antonio’s arms wrapped about his waist, his teasing, and the hand that grabbed his arse. “... Oh right. That.”

“So you do remember.” Antonio beamed, nuzzling into his neck. “What d’you think? Can I have you?”

“I… don’t know.” Arthur lied, turning his head elsewhere. The burn in his cheeks was becoming unbearable, and he could feel every bump and curve of Antonio’s muscles, and his crotch far too close to his rear. “I’m not saying no. It’s just- I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

Arthur stood up straight, at a loss for words, and decided to clear his throat. He wanted to leap at the offer, truly, but the potion needed their attention most of all.

“Let’s finish this first.” He spoke on that note. “Then maybe later we can… discuss this in greater detail?”

“Sounds like an excuse.” Antonio huffed, stepping back.

“It’s an order.” Arthur laughed, scooping the ingredients in both hands. “Magic is a terribly impatient thing. If we don’t put this lot in soon, the cauldron will probably explode.”

“Good point.” Antonio replied, gathering whatever Arthur couldn’t manage. If there was one thing Arthur excelled at, it was explosions, so he had to be telling the truth.

 


	21. Bloodstone

“Magic is a lot like drinking.” Arthur began, pacing the second room. “Beneficial in moderation, but catastrophic in the wrong pair of hands.”

Antonio wondered if he meant himself, as far as both of those were concerned. Nevertheless he kept his mouth shut, and eyed their new surroundings: A simple room lined with dark wooden cabinets, and a long black table in its centre. Some time ago it must have been used for dining, but now it hosted a different kind of banquet. A buffet of branches, soil, and salts, arranged in two neat lines.

“Sit.” Arthur instructed firmly, which Antonio did without complaint. He watched Arthur light a small candle first, and set it down, followed by dry petals and a shallow dish of water. Then came scrap metal from a broken tool, and a sprinkle of black, crumbling dust, which Arthur set in another small dish.  

“Are we making more potions?”

“No, something much better.” Arthur replied, standing back to admire his work. “We’re going to find out what magic you have.”

“... You mean there’s more than one?”

“There’s hundreds. Maybe even thousands.” Arthur explained. “It all depends on the caster themselves. Their lifestyle, surrounding land, even their accent can have an effect on spells.”

Antonio raised a brow high, unimpressed. “You saying I can’t use it?”

“I’m sure you can.” Arthur blurted in that telltale, hesitant laugh. “It’s just that I- I’ve seen plenty of magicks from overseas. Like French, Norwegian, Romanian... and plenty from my brothers’ homes but-”

“Not Spanish.” Antonio finished. All of a sudden the situation felt hopeless, whereas Arthur paid keen interest in his rosary, and the long stretch of materials across the table.

“I’m not sure what’ll happen, to be honest.”

“Oh brilliant.”

“But it might be incredible!” Arthur added, lighting up at the very thought. Every step he took held a bit more bounce then, but eventually he stood beside the chair, and directed a hand to the items ahead. “Can you feel anything?”

“Besides your enthusiasm? Nothing.”

“Concentrate, this is the basics of magic.” Arthur sighed. “You must find the element that you share a bond with, and train based on whatever that is.”

“And which is yours?”

“That'd be telling.” Arthur boasted, holding a palm out over the coal. Upon doing so it trembled, and sparked, before glowing with an odd blue hue. When his palm rose over the water it formed a chain of droplets, whilst the dry petals burst into life, and quickly died when he pulled back his hand.

“Maybe I’m wrong but... those seemed to react the most.” Antonio guessed, pointing towards the petals. “Is there a reason for it?”

“There certainly is.” Arthur stated with pride. “Earth magic was the first element I learnt. When I was little I’d practice in the forest each day, make things grow faster, or bloom in different colours. I’d make trees move to attack my enemies, or change the forest’s layout to confuse them altogether.”

“That sounds helpful.” Antonio chipped in. “And I suppose you’ve mastered fire as well?”

Surprisingly, Arthur shook his head. “I’m still trying to figure that out. The blasted thing needs a delicate hand.”

Which he definitely lacked, if his knife skills were anything to go by. So far he could cremate an entire field, or blow things up, whilst simple tasks required greater focus. Antonio’s face spoke volumes on that note, but rather than poke fun he chose to stand, and eye each item in turn.

“What other magic could I have?”

“Besides those two? Wind or water are popular choices.” Arthur proposed, watching Antonio work his way down the lines. “Then there’s ice, lightning, metal... Light and dark too.”

“I see.” Antonio muttered, lowering his gaze. Even if his interest had piqued the last few minutes, his confidence remained the same. He wouldn’t dare extend his palm just yet.

“Is something the matter?”

Antonio pursed his lips, and gave a weak shake of his head. He thought of life in the court, and his ship. Of attacking Arthur late at night, only to recall nothing the following day. A person like that couldn’t be trusted with magic.

“Don’t hesitate.” Arthur cut in. “Whatever happens, I’m right by your side.”

“But it’s a risk.”

“All the best things are.” Arthur reasoned. “Now go on, hold out your hand.”

 

* * *

 

 Disappointment hit Antonio hard. He maintained the proper stance, and concentration, yet nothing jumped to his command. The petals remained dead, the coal unlit, and the water merely rippled from a draft. The branches were branches, nothing more, same with the soil, the metal and stone.

“I must be doing something wrong.” Antonio uttered, staring at Arthur from over his shoulder. “They won’t respond at all.”

 _Try again._ He wanted Arthur to say, but all he did was bite his lip, and cup Antonio’s hand in his own.

“Hmn... The magic is definitely there.” Arthur mumbled. “Perhaps we’re missing something.”

“Like what?”

Arthur frowned, following the lines on his palm. With his free hand he began to trace them, pressing lightly with the tip of his finger. “There’s something I’ve noticed about you lately, besides the haircut.”

Antonio smiled. “Do tell.”

Arthur preferred to show his thoughts instead, reaching into his cloak for a fine silver dagger. “It’s just a theory, but it won’t take long-”

“No, no, _no_!” Antonio objected, whipping his hand back. “You keep that away!”

Arthur planned to either way, calmly unsheathing the blade. Without a word he then pulled up his own sleeve, and tapped the dagger along his arm. “Where should I go?”

“Put that away-”

“Palm it is.”

“ _No, don’t!”_ Antonio yelled, too late to stop the blade. It bit into Arthur’s palm, and struck left, splattering the table with vibrant red. “You idiot!”

“Just trust me!” Arthur barked back, seizing Antonio’s hand in his own. Upon doing so his palm screamed and wept, but he held firm until something stirred, something which made Antonio’s eyes grow wide.

“My arm, it’s-” He gasped. “What _is_ this?!”

“It’s our answer.” Arthur said. “Now focus.”

Antonio could only try. He feared that their grip might strain the wound, but then the air between their palms turned cool, and his magic rushed in a heavy stream. It pooled like soft waves, spring breeze, mint leaves, and sea spray on the docks. It was a summer’s day, a blanket at night, and the tenderness of lovers in bed.

It was a flurry of icy warm bliss, then seconds later, a vast, grey heap of nothing. Antonio’s arm became hot, normal flesh, and a dull pulse throbbed beneath his skin. Arthur’s face no longer held pain, and when he pulled back he let out a laugh, and raised his hand for Antonio to see.

“You've done it!”

In a matter of seconds the wound was gone, along with the breath in Antonio's lungs. He snatched the hand for a look, then scrubbed it clean, searching frantically for signs of a scar.

“That’s not possible.” He exclaimed. “Why’s it better?!”

“Because you’re a healer, not a fighter.” Arthur declared. “And that’s the best kind of magic you can have.”

“You’re just saying that.”

Arthur shook his head, and broke into a humble smile. Apparently Antonio had fixed his face in the process, but he wouldn’t spoil the mood with that joke.

“Healing magic is difficult, even for me.” Arthur confessed. “If you’re not focused the wound won’t mend, and if you don’t care for the person, you could hurt them more. Spread infections through their body, or worse.”

“That’s not fun.”

“But I’m glad you care.” Arthur teased. “To heal a wound without leaving a scar, and on your very first try no less… I’d say you’re absolutely besotted by me-”

“I can slap you.” Antonio warned. “And I won’t fix it.”

Arthur took him on his word, laughing hard.

 

* * *

 

 Above the depths of the purple lit cellar, the tavern was empty. Still. The crew had yet to come home, and in the meantime João took to the streets. He strode to the marketplace, brimming with life, and humoured the jokes of a middle aged fruit vendor.

One thing led to another, and minutes later both men were still talking. They watched a drunkard being hauled from the local tavern, and laughed when he was promptly dumped in thick, gloopy mud.

“Serves him right, causin’ trouble like that.” The owner grumbled, then eyed João up and down. “You on the other hand, you’re different. You seem like a decent bloke.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I mean it.” The owner pressed, throwing him an apple for his time. “But I gotta’ ask; did the storm drag you ‘ere as well?”

“It did, but I don’t mind.”

“And where you headed?”

“I dare not say.” João gasped, feigning horror. “Another storm might come and ruin my plans.”

“Right you are son.” The owner laughed, passing him a few more apples for the road. “Best of luck then.”

“And to you.” João bowed, taking his leave.

 

* * *

 

 Ever since that conversation, João pondered about his ‘plans’. To be honest he didn’t have one, never liked them, but at this rate it wouldn’t hurt to try. He could plan dinner, for starters, that would help. Then work on dealing with Antonio next.

Whether his brother needed him there or not, João knew it would be wrong to leave. He had to discover the cause of his _turns,_  and if possible, get rid of them for good.

“Or I could leave it to Artur.” He spoke aloud, eating the last of his apples. Arthur was reliable, _good_ like that, and could sort Antonio on his own. 

Then again that was no different from running, João quickly realised. In fact it was probably even worse.

“But what can I do?” He continued to rant, walking along the docks. “I try to talk, but Antonio never listens. He’s always trapped in that sunny little mindset- saying _everything’s great, fantastic, fine,_ when clearly it’s anything but!”

João wrapped up his outburst with a sigh. A crowd of guards stood at the mouth of the port, which he passed with heavy stomps of his boots. Merchant ships on both sides were being fixed, and those who had settled were flogging their wares.The larger vessels mostly kept to themselves, engaging in song and drink, but at the end of it all João found a lone, unattended dock, and sat at the very edge. He dangled his legs over the wood, and kicked them slowly, following the beat of the waves.

Water was unpredictable, wild, and João loved it. It made him yearn for another voyage to the East, and the wonders that awaited him there. He wanted to create homes, good business, wealth, and find a small underling to call his own.

He’d raise them like a son or daughter, and teach them how to survive. Have them learn trade laws, maps and the blade, everything one needed to dominate the seas.

“Excuse me, sir?”

João groaned, but never looked back. “What is it?”

A shuffle of boots, and an awkward cough. “I have a question.”

“You just asked one.”

“Then let me have another.” Said the voice. Bold bastard. In a way João respected him for that, and turned to find a skinny, nervous wreck of a sailor. One of the young men who supervised the docks. “You are a friend of Arthur’s, aren’t you Sir?”

“Perhaps.”

“I saw you both the other day, near this spot.” The lad continued. “Arthur came here with his First Mate too, and spoke with the Spaniard from that eerie ship.”

“A ship is a ship.” João remarked. “Nothing but bent wood and colourful sails.”

“But that one has an atmosphere.” The lad pressed firm. “Some of the others even reckon it’s cursed.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

The young man rocked from foot to foot, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothing Sir, but… would you mind coming with me? I need you to confirm our records.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Arthur said you’d help.”

With that João pursed his lips, and slowly got back on his feet. Stupid Arthur should have mentioned this sooner, or perhaps he avoided it knowing he’d be annoyed. “Fine, fine… Will it take long?”

“No. Not at all. But please hurry.”

“Only if you calm down.”

The young man didn’t. If anything he trembled worse as they went, heading towards the meeting point at the central docks. He said nothing as they passed the merchant fleets, but as they slipped into the shadow of a galleon, João’s steps became lighter. Aware.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

The lad moved as if to shake his head, and suddenly changed his mind. His previous nerves became genuine alarm, and his eyes focused on a spot behind João.

“Forgive me. Please.”

“For what?”

“I can’t-”

Soft lips formed a small, frightened ‘O’, but João couldn’t make out the words. A single blow from behind took him down, but as he hit the docks he saw a blur of his attacker, and heard his final, ominous words.

_“Good work, boy. We’ll take him from here.”_

 


	22. Sodalite

 Back in the candlelit corridor, Antonio waited for Arthur to return. He opened his palm, curled each finger in tight, and did the same with the other hand. He muttered foreign words -a make believe spell- but nothing brought his veins to life. The magic inside him kept a cautious low, like a beast taking cover in the dark.

“I’m back!” Arthur called in due course, hurrying to his side. “The brew’s doing well so far. Only another hour or two until it’s done.”

“I see.”

Antonio’s focus remained on his hand, the one which had conjured magic. He tried another barely-there whisper of a spell, desperate to ignite its spark, and to no surprise, no sorcery came.

“I’m afraid that won’t work.” Arthur stated, nodding to Antonio’s palm. “Your kind of magic won’t appear until it’s needed.”

Annoyingly, that made perfect sense. You couldn’t heal a wound which didn’t exist, but nevertheless Arthur respected his curiosity, and took his hand for a reassuring squeeze.

“You really were amazing back there.” He praised. “In fact you’ve been brilliant with everything, ghosts included.”

“I don’t understand a thing.” Antonio confessed. “And now that I have magic, it confuses me even more.”

“That’s perfectly normal.”

“But is it _right_?”

Arthur stilled his tongue, and glanced towards Antonio’s chest. During their talk his free hand had latched itself upon his rosary, and thumbed the crucifix back and forth. “... You’re talking about religion, aren’t you love?”

“You can’t blame me.” Antonio mumbled. “I try to accept magic, I really do. But what I did for you just now- that’s not right. Healing is the work of God. No one else.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur reluctantly conceded. “But what if God _wanted_ you to have this magic?”

“You’re joking.”

Arthur’s stern, wrinkled brow said otherwise. “I thought about this earlier, as I was checking on the potion. You’ve always been kind to others, regardless of how poorly they may treat you… so it seems fitting you have this ability.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Just trust me, please.” Arthur encouraged. “If my brothers were here they’d say the same. Magic’s in the family, you see.”

“Heaven help us.” Antonio deadpanned, taking back his hand. “The Kirklands will destroy the world.”

“Assuming Iberia doesn’t take it over first.”

Antonio took that remark in his stride. He and João were certainly a double act at the moment, but the Kirklands were hardly any better. Each brother was dangerous, given the chance, and held ambitions greater than their thick, scruffy brows.

“What magic do they use?” He found himself asking, only to distract from that last image. “Are they earth casters, like yourself?”

“Thankfully not.” Arthur promptly grumbled. “Alastair excels with fire magic, Dylan in water, and Seamus fucks about with wind.”

“That’s a good balance, I suppose.”  

“But Alastair and I are terrible healers.” Arthur added, as if sharing something with Scotland physically pained him. “Dylan’s the best at it. Seamus tries, but you know what the Irish are like. He prefers using magic to harass me, rather than aid his people.”

“I admire his devotion to Catholicism.” Antonio reasoned. “Alastair on the other hand… I think he hates me.”

“He hates everything.” Arthur droned. He straightened up with a deep inward breath, and without warning, began to snarl. “You should’ve seen him when he realised I could use fire magic. He was all _‘aye ya fookin’ wee shite!! I’ll cut off ye limbs, hang ye by ye intestines and piss on ye rotten corpse when I’m dun!'_ ”

“That was frighteningly accurate.” Antonio laughed, noting how Arthur’s chest puffed up with pride. “But what about your other brother, Dylan. How is he?”

“Ah.” Arthur’s smile faltered, just for a second. “It’s uh… it's funny you should ask that.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you’ve oppressed your own brother.” Antonio scolded, following Arthur down the corridor. “Does your greed have no limits?”

“Thanks to my _greed,_ Dylan’s got a voice in parliament.” Arthur argued, nursing his swollen cheek. “What’s so bad about that?”

“You’ve banned him from using Welsh in the courts.”

“You don’t know my struggle!”

Antonio did, and that was the problem. Arthur was notoriously impatient when it came to languages, but he would gladly snatch whatever words took his fancy, and add them to his native tongue.

“Let’s move on.” Antonio proposed. “There must be a cursed treasure room we can search through down here.”

“There is. But I need to go somewhere ordinary, first.” Arthur answered, which was likewise ordinary, and boring to hear. He stopped at a door on the left shortly after, and from his ring of keys he singled out the smallest, most plain of all, and set it into the lock.

Even the way it clicked sounded shamefully basic. It groaned when Arthur hauled open the door, and greeted them with its horde of copper, bronze, iron and steel. Crates of cannonballs and armour filled the floor space, whilst old weaponry smothered the walls.

“What an embarrassment.” Arthur hissed, stepping inside the room. Fortunately the servant ghosts had kept it cobweb free, but the sheer number of objects hurt his pride. They weren’t beautiful, ordered items like his books. Or fascinating like ingredient jars. Axes were axes, swords were swords, and shields were weighty, useless crap.

“Apologies for the mess.” He spoke aloud. “I don’t maintain this very well but-”

“It’s perfect.”

“You what?”

“You heard me.” Antonio pressed, meeting Arthur’s bewildered stare. His own eyes danced between wonder and blatant madness, whilst his hands trembled and raised by his sides. They made grabbing motions as he crept towards the haul, and when he plucked up a sword his breaths became ragged. Sharp. Intense.

_"Ven aquí mi sol.”_

“Steady there.” Arthur wheezed, taken aback. “Are you trying to seduce me in a storage room, of all places?”

“I was talking to the sword.” Antonio shot back, holding it close with an enamoured groan. “Now close the door, we’re getting cold.”

 

* * *

 

 _You reap what you sow._ João recalled, staring up at the bland wooden ceiling. The treasures beneath him dug into his back, but thanks to the numbness lurking in his body, he felt discomfort, rather than pain. Even his head hurt less than expected, despite the force of the earlier blow, whereas his pride took a turn for the worse. It tumbled, ached and despaired, reminding him that maybe -just maybe- he had provoked the wrong man in town.

“Awake at last?” Morales asked, standing before the great pile of gold. In its centre João was spread like a dead starfish, and about as useful as one to boot. “How awful. We must’ve hit you too hard.”

“You don’t fucking say.” João scowled, and got back to the matter at hand. He closed his eyes, begged his limbs to move, but so far only his head would respond. “Mind explaining what you’ve done to my body?”

“We slipped you a potion in your sleep, to keep you still.” Morales informed. “I admit it’s rather unethical, given my religion, but it’s for the best.”

“You’re scared.”

“I’m cautious.” Morales corrected, moving in closer. He kicked a stash of coins as he paced about the mound, and smirked when one hit João in the middle of his forehead. “Our last encounter was rather… unpleasant, shall we say? You swept in, held me hostage, and barked orders like a rabid mutt-”

“I needed answers.” João hissed.

“There’s better ways of getting them.” Morales countered, coming to kneel by João’s reluctant side. He plucked up a limp arm, then dropped it down, and gazed over João’s form with persistent amusement. “For instance, I’ve been wondering about you since we met. How it is you closely resembled my Empire’s immortal nuisance, and have such an affinity with that English bastard. But then it hit me.”

“I’ll hit you too, when I can move my arms.” João warned, growing bored of the situation. “Now get to the point.”

“I know who you are, Portugal.” Morales announced. “I know of your alliances, and that you plan to aid your brother.”

“Oh no. You found me.” João mocked, feigning surprise. “How ever did you manage it?”

“I have my sources.”

“Opening a map would’ve been faster.”

“Hilarious.” Morales growled, snatching a clump of João’s hair in his fist. He pulled it back sharp to crane his head, and watched his body jerk like a child’s doll in the wind. “You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

“Some say I’m charming-”

“You’re disgusting.” Morales snarled, spitting at the space just beside his head. “But unfortunately my opinions are irrelevant. I must do all I can to save my people, even if it means involving myself with your kind.”

“D’you mean the Portuguese, or the undying?”

_"Both."_

“Ah. I Thought so.” João grimaced, as his skull began to sting. Trust the pain to kick in first, of all things, when his limbs still refused to move.  

“Is something the matter?”

“Nothing which concerns you.” João laughed through the discomfort. “But just so you know, when this bastard potion wears off-”

“You won’t harm a soul upon this ship.” Morales finished, far too confident for anyone’s liking. “Instead you shall join us in our plan, and atone for your family’s ways.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll feed you enough potion to trap you for days, and hurl you in the ocean to see if you drown.”

“I don’t like that at all.” João remarked.

“That’s the point.” Morales sighed, rising to his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to attend.”

“Good riddance.”

“I’ll return later-”

“Don’t bother.” João insisted. “I don’t need your company.”

“You’ll come to appreciate it.” Morales spoke firmly, heading towards the stairs. “Maybe even prefer it.”

João doubted that very much. The sooner Morales left the better, and the sooner he could go about plotting his escape. “... Anything else I should know before you leave, mutineer First Mate?”

“Just one thing.” Morales replied, lacing his speech with a bitter tone. “Keep your opinions to yourself from now on. It’d be a shame to cut your tongue out so soon.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” João mused, claiming the final word. 

 


	23. Peridot

“If someone had told me I’d be naming cannonballs today, I might have called them mad.” Arthur laughed, opening his hand. “Who’s it gonna’ be this time, Carlos III?”

“Juan, actually.” Antonio decided, slapping the ball in Arthur’s palm. “Treat him kindly.”

“ _Juan_ can only try.”

“Are you mocking my language?”

“Its a bit of fun, dear.” Arthur snickered, setting little Juan with the rest of its peers. By the time he looked up Antonio was flustered, gawking with scorn, before returning to the matter at hand. He plucked up a battered blade, tested the weight in both hands, then felt every groove as if deciphering a code.

Sometime during their rummage, Antonio told him that the dents were memories. The honest, tangible past. They were reminders of pride, and battles best forgotten, an anchor which kept a man from flying too high. He also likened them to Arthur’s cursed treasures, which albeit amusing, made a fair bit of sense. Much like Arthur poured magic into those objects, a blacksmith put their spirit into their work, forging metal with all the sparks and noise one would expect of a spell.

Dare Arthur say it, that comparison changed his mind. He thought about the room like he did his books, and other treasures, and felt shame in not tidying it before. In time he was the one leading their exploration, shifting crates and thick, wax cloths, until he discovered a long box at the far end of the room, barely visible under the cover of dark.

Normally, the find wouldn’t have bothered him, in fact he would have ignored it altogether. After all, a long box was no different than a short one, technically speaking, but then this one was bound with chains, and a substantial lock keeping the thing shut tight.

“Did you find something?” Antonio asked, peering over the crate wall Arthur had made. “More swords, I hope?”

Arthur shook his head, and took out his ring of keys. He located the right one without even trying, as if recalling notes from an age old tune, or steps from a forgotten dance. “It’s yours.”

“Ah.” Antonio groaned, rolling his eyes. “Stolen goods. I should have known-”

“I mean they’re _yours_.” Arthur repeated. He let the oncoming silence fill in the gaps, and watched Antonio’s face soften with understanding.

“You’re certain?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Arthur uttered, kneeling before the box. His fingers trembled whilst opening the lock, and his ears rang with the sounds of chains, slithering and pooling by his side. Behind him Antonio loomed with fascination, adding to his nerves, and upon lifting the lid Antonio gasped aloud, and nearly dove right into the box.

“These _are_ mine!”

“I did say so-”

“But that’s not all.” Antonio continued, pulling out a tired looking bow and quiver. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

“That’s- I suppose...” Arthur tried to respond, eyeing the weaponry in Antonio’s hands. After several years the quiver still bore mud stains and cuts in its leather, whilst the arrow feathers sagged and had matted together. “Yeah. It’s probably mine.”

“Of course it is.” Antonio pressed. “You loved archery, I remember.”

So did Arthur, now that he mentioned it. Many moons back he loved it more than magic, and spent hours wandering through the forest, setting up target practice boards. He even maintained a score system for a short time, but when you live for so long the novelty wears off, and Arthur grew bored of adding up the points. When Antonio joined the court his forests visits increased, but every now and then he brought his skills to the palace gardens, and secretly enjoyed the company of his foreign, yet familiar friend.

 

* * *

  
" _Keep your arm straight, and don’t let go too soon.” The old soldier informed, tapping Antonio’s elbow up with his bow. He nudged his feet a little further apart, and wore a scowl so endearing, yet scary, Antonio almost broke his stance from laughing._

_“I never realised there were so many rules to archery!” He exclaimed. “Normally I draw back and hope for the best.”_

_“We English like a system.” The soldier informed gruffly, not meaning to offend. “Our archers take pride in being the best, so take advantage of this moment whilst you can.”_

_“Whilst we’re allies?”_

_The soldier pursed his lips. His wiry grey moustache twitched side to side, and he signalled for Antonio to release his arrow. Only when it shot into the target did he make an effort to respond, coughing and grumbling as he paced in a circle._

_“I know you mean well, but such talk is dangerous, in jest or not.”_

_“Of course.”_

_“You should follow ‘is example.”_

_“Whose?”_

_“Him.” The soldier replied, gesturing to a cluster of trees with his head. At first it was hard to see what he meant, but then a young, sullen looking Arthur stepped out of the bushes, caught them staring, and looked to palace with widened eyes. “No lad! Come over here!”_

_Arthur reluctantly obliged, and made no effort in hiding his disapproval. His large quiver slapped his back with each stomp, and when he stood before them his posture stiffened, and his pale, freckled nose scrunched up tight._

_“You needed me, sir?”_

_“Teach this one how to shoot.” The soldier explained, setting a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “Something other than sharp remarks, that is.”_

_“Have you considered removing his tongue?”_

_“Have you considered the Spanish court?” The soldier scolded, ruffling Arthur’s hair. “Honestly lad, I was praising you a minute ago for your behaviour. Live up to your good name.”_

_Arthur did anything but, and proceeded to sulk like most young men his age. He crossed his arms, puffed out his flushed, pinks cheeks, and repeatedly tapped a boot to the ground. “With all due respect sir, he prefers to swing blades like a madman. Perhaps archery is too refined for him?”_

_“But I hit the target.” Antonio piped up innocently, as if that might help. “I think I can do it.”_

_“He thinks he can do it.” The soldier jibed, clapping a hand round Arthur’s head. “Now go on, be nice to each other.”_

_“But sir-”_

_The soldier shook his head, and left the two boys to it. The very nerve of it had Arthur muttering severe, unholy words, whilst Antonio twirled his bow in his hand. He threw it up once, and again, then missed the catch, gasping as it whacked the top of Arthur's head.  
_

 

* * *

  
“You were adorable back then.” Antonio chuckled, cradling the bow and quiver in his arms. “Although I don’t think you liked me much.”

“Of course I did!” Arthur snapped back with flushed cheeks. “You were nice, and kind and- everyone banged on about your stupid, pretty face, and how your _lovely_ dark curls framed it so sweetly. Not to mention how educated, and cultured you were-”

“Thank you. I loved you too.”

A strange scream escaped Arthur’s lips. He snatched the bow and quiver away, and reached so far into the box that Antonio thought he might fall in altogether. “I didn’t- No, never you bloody mind- we’re wasting time here!”

For once Antonio agreed. As fun as it was to tease Arthur about emotions, he wanted to see what else he had stored inside the container. In fairness he expected a handful of valuable trinkets, relics from those fond days, but then Arthur hauled out a long wad of fabric, tightly wrapped and bound. Its considerable weight caused his arms to dip, but Antonio was too busy eyeing the shape in full; the long pole which stretched out far, and fanned at the very end.

“Is that… what I think it is?”

“Definitely.” Arthur laughed. “You’re the only one I know who- _woah, steady on there!”_

Antonio wasted no time in stealing the object, and ridding of the covers. Without a care in the world he tossed fabric about the room, nearly smacking Arthur in the face numerous times, and when he revealed his halberd he let out that same deep, gritty moan from earlier on, and brought the flat of the axe head to his lips.

“Don’t fucking kiss it.” Arthur grimaced, watching Antonio shower the halberd with frantic pecks. “It’s been in there for ages!”

“But I’m in _love_!” Antonio shot back, cuddling the pole to his chest. “I haven’t seen my child in years and you deny me this?!”

“Hang on-” Arthur squinted hard, doing his best to keep up. “Firstly, you’re supposed to be in love with me, secondly, that’s a weapon, not a child-”

“You don’t understand.” Antonio huffed, reverting back to the messy, sharp breathed ways of before. “I left him here for so long and I- I’ve never given him a name. I forgot about him-”

“I’m sure it forgives you.”

“ _He._ ”

“Right, right. He. Boy halberd. Makes perfect sense.”

Antonio agreed with a firm nod of his head, then plastered the weapon with another hasty kiss. Suffice to say the intimacy was bizarre, but above all else Arthur experienced a shameful wave of jealousy. He almost regretted taking the damn thing from the box, and when Antonio tried to straddle it he rolled his eyes, and got up on his feet.

“Shall I leave you two alone?”

“We’ll call him Gatito.”

“Sorry?”

At last Antonio stopped his odd romancing, just long enough to meet Arthur’s stare. “I taught you the word before, remember? Days ago when we were talking about kittens.”

“But that’s not a kitten.” Arthur deadpanned. “In fact it’s far more dangerous.”

“And yet you sheltered it all this time, when you didn’t have to.” Antonio reasoned gently, glowing with that trademark smile. “In a way that’s… kinda’ like me, isn’t it? You helped me when you owed nothing and… you know what I mean, I’ve said it before.”

Arthur certainly did, but hearing it now made things much sweeter. He could've told Antonio the truth, that he was the inspiration behind the joke, but all the while he was happy and safe, Arthur doubted he ever would.

“Fine, fine. Gatito it is then.” Arthur settled, pecking him on the forehead. “Now wipe your lips, will you? Who knows what you’ll catch off that blade.”

“Want a taste?”

“Absolutely not.”

 

* * *

  
“Oi, oi. Listen. I’ve got another one for you!”

At the base of the lavish treasure mound, three Spanish sailors sat in a circle, wincing in dismay. As the lowest ranking men they were tasked with watching João, which for the most part meant indulging his fantastical stories, and his offensive excuse for humour. Although he couldn’t move his body his spirits never dampened, and if anything, his mood improved.

“C’mon, this one’s good I promise.” João called out, able to turn his head at long last. “How many Spaniards does it take to light a lamp?”

“What?”

“Just Juan.”

The stricter of the three men signed a cross, and squeezed his eyes shut tight. The remaining two shot glares at their prisoner, whilst João reigned the treasure heap like the glorious, dead starfish impersonator that he was, roaring with unnecessary laughter.

“D’you get it? Juan, one?! Oh nevermind, that’s British humour for you. I was confused too when Artur first said it-”

“You’re ridiculous!” One of the men spat, climbing up to face him. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, and yet you repeatedly go out of your way to insult us!”

“You sound bitter.” João mused. “Go on, tell us a better joke.”

“No-”

Unfortunately for the Spanish, the second sailor chose to indulge him. He clenched a fist, likewise charged up to João, and leaned over him with a horrible sneer.

“What do you call a Portuguese man that won’t shut his mouth?”

João would have shrugged if it were possible, but settled for pulling an awkward expression. “I dunno’. What _do_ you call a Portuguese man that won’t shut his mouth?”

“It’s easy!” The sailor barked, then came to a stop. His mind appeared to draw a blank too fast, and after a pause the third, calmer man stood up, and brushed the dust from his clothes.

“... We don’t know his name.”

João couldn’t hold it in if he tried. His ribs hurt from the force of his laughing, and hot tears streamed down his face. He barely paid attention to the death threats that followed, and only tried to still himself when heavy boots came down the stairs, accompanied by that boring, familiar voice.

 _"_ _What’s going on down here?!”_   


	24. Lepidolite

"I thought I told you to be quiet.” Morales warned, pacing over to João. “That your tongue would be-”

_ “Removed if I cause any trouble _ .” João echoed in a tired drone. “I know, you said it. But what am I supposed to do, stuck like this, with your miserable crew for company?”

“You’re here to atone, not make friends.”

“Right.” João mocked dryly. “Atone for a man who hasn’t sinned.”

“Are you certain of that?” Morales asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“It’s like I said.”

João pursed his lips shut tight. Antonio was certainly far from perfect, but in comparison to João, he was fairly good. He avoided the pull of jewels and gold for starters, and preferred a book to a rowdy tavern. Furthermore he devoted long hours to prayer, whilst João dropped to his knees for different, unsavoury reasons.

“I fear you know nothing of that man’s behaviour.” Morales stated. “What he is capable of.”

“I know precisely what Antonio can do.” João quickly countered. “And I know he’s not what you’re implying.”

“We’ll see.” Morales replied, shaking his head. He kicked a boot into the treasure pile hard, and watched gold scatter about the room. “You know, there is a saying in this land… _ ignorance is bliss _ ?”

“Look.” João pressed firmly. “Whatever you have against my brother-”

“Let’s make a deal.” Morales interrupted. “I have an antidote to your condition upstairs. If you promise to cease your foolishness, I will give it to you.”

“You can’t be serious.” João scoffed, taken aback. “That’s a huge risk, you know?”

“I’m aware.” Morales replied. “But if you comply, I will tell you everything I know about your brother. What we have planned for him, and why his mood turns dangerous without warning.”

“I see.”

João feigned a lack of interest first, then swallowed the lump in his throat. Morales held everything he craved in those greedy, wretched hands, and he knew it.

“... Is that all you want? Truly?”  He pried carefully.

“You must also promise not to escape, or harm my crew.” Morales confirmed. “But besides that, I am content.”

“Then I agree to your terms.” João grumbled. “Now fetch that antidote, before I change my mind.”

 

* * *

 

 Arthur gave the potion a final stir, then reached for an empty vial. Clouds of green and purple smoke billowed around him, whilst the scent of forests hit his nostrils.

Provided the brewing stage went well, the potion could heal the most terrible of pains. It could allow a person to fly, or slip through walls, and yet for all its potential and wonder, Arthur’s attention had drifted to the floor. To Antonio more specifically, who knelt over his beloved halberd, gently polishing the blade with a cloth.

“Forgive me.” Arthur uttered without thinking. “I was selfish.”

“You talking about the other day, behind that curtain?” Antonio asked.

“Of course not.” Arthur sighed. “Though that too was selfish.”

“Then what?”

Arthur bit his lower lip, pacing to Antonio’s side. As he approached he let his focus wander, firstly over the cloak, and then to the skin at the nape of his neck, bordered by small curls of hair.

“I’ve never thought to ask what you enjoy. What you’re interested in.” Arthur reasoned. “So this love of weapons has come as a surprise.”

“I hear that often.” Antonio laughed nervously, staring at his halberd. “Most think I’m too keen, that I should stick to peaceful, appropriate hobbies.”

“Well I like your enthusiasm.”

“Really?” Antonio smiled wryly. “I’m sure I bored you-”

“Not at all.” Arthur pressed, extending his fingers. He wanted to feel the nape for himself, and gained a hint of pride when Antonio shivered under his touch.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’ve decided to indulge your request.”

“My what?”

Arthur withdrew his hand without a word, and got down on his knees. “Taking charge of sex can be rather tiring, so I agree to your proposal. You should do the work this time.”

“You’re so romantic.” Antonio teased. “But very well. I’ll keep it slow, so I don't show you up-”

Arthur growled a flustered  _ shut it,  _ and brought their lips together. Upon doing so he tasted the horrible tang of age old metal, that bloody halberd, but ignored it for the sake of Antonio’s touch. The gentle fingers that wove into the back of his hair, and the other arm which tugged him in close. And closer still.

“When do you want it?” Antonio breathed between kisses.

“Tonight.” Arthur replied. He cupped Antonio’s cheek in the palm of his hand, and ran his thumb over the skin in silent awe. “When everything is done. And only then.”

“Of course.”

“But before that.” Arthur resumed. “There’s somewhere else I want to take you.”

“Where’s that?”

“I can’t say yet. It’s a secret.” Arthur insisted. “But you’ll like it, promise.”

“I’m sure I will.” Antonio agreed. “Now back to the loving part, do you have any preferences or...?”

Arthur scrunched his nose up tight, and escaped Antonio’s hold. His arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stood up, and all his tender ways disappeared. Buried beneath his sour, yet endearing act.

“All I ask is that you do a proper job.” Arthur huffed. “If you dare pull any sloppy, half hearted nonsense I’ll-... I’ll take over! And you’ll be bloody sorry!”

“Sounds fun.” Antonio grinned.

“And highly plausible, at this rate.” Arthur deadpanned. “Now come along, we’d best check the tavern’s still in one piece.”

 

* * *

 

 Leaving the basement-turned-lair was simple. After his nautical nightmare Antonio expected the worst, but as they passed back through the wall he only dreamt of forest roots, and swirling smoke. The magic in his veins throbbed to a dull, cool beat, and before Antonio knew it they were back in Arthur’s study. Still as purple and ominous as ever.

On the way out Arthur rid them of their cloaks, but let the halberd come along. He made sure it didn’t damage the study, or the cobwebbed, keg-filled cellar, and felt some relief when they reached the larger, tavern floor. From there Antonio hoped they would take it easy, have a quick drink before proceeding, but instead they came face to face with a frantic Peter, and Thomas scratching his stubbly chin.

“I dunno’ what to say lad.” Thomas grumbled. “S’not much left ‘ere, but we could try?”

“There’s nowhere near enough-”

“Is something the matter?” Arthur interfered, silencing the pair. Despite noticing the halberd neither man made a point to speak of it, as if it were normal, and focused on their captain.

“S’about dinner.” Thomas explained. “We thought João was makin’ it, but he’s not ‘ere.”

Arthur furrowed his brows at that, and checked the clock at the back of the bar. Assuming it was correct, which it often was, Arthur had been away much longer than planned. Several hours in fact. By the time they surfaced it was nearly four, and definitely time to prepare the evening meals.

“If we have ingredients here, we should use them.” He proposed.

“We already considered that.” Thomas cut in. “But there’s sod all in the storage room.”

“So João must’ve gone shopping.” Arthur surmised. “And has yet to return.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Antonio chipped in, setting his halberd on a nearby table. “João doesn’t break promises.”

“He’s also crap at time keeping.” Arthur added with a grin. “To be honest, I think our safest bet is to buy some more food. That way if he does return sometime soon, we’ll have even more to eat.”

“As you wish.” Thomas mused. With a firm hand he then guided Peter along, grabbed a handful of coins from behind the bar, and tipped his head in silent thanks. “We’ll see what we can find.”

“Best of luck.” Arthur replied, waving as they left the tavern door. Only when the door shut did he lower his hand, and crack up in laughter about it all.

“Bloody typical, isn’t it?” He snorted. “Your brother's forever getting distracted in this town.”

Antonio grunted in presumed agreement. He admired the halberd in the light, quickly seized it in both hands, and rolled it in his palms. All in all he was strangely quiet, or perhaps enamoured with that forsaken weapon.

“Tonio?”

“Mmh?”

“Nevermind.” Arthur chuckled, shaking his head side to side.

 

* * *

 

 “I have returned.” João boldly declared, throwing his arms out either side. He stumbled about the treasure mound, flexed his fingers wide, and barely stopped himself from falling on his face. “It’s taken one horrible drink and hours of my time, but at last my body is back.”

“Fascinating.” Morales droned. “Now do you care to press on with business, or continue prancing like a fool?”

“Prancing sounds good.” João said with a smirk. “Gotta’ check everything’s in working order.”

“We have an arrangement-”

João barely masked a groan. No matter what he said or did Morales complained, wholly determined to ruin his fun. “Alright, alright. We can talk.”

“In my cabin.” Morales added, rising to his feet. “We need privacy.”

“Yes sir.” João rolled his eyes back hard, and followed Morales up the stairs. Quite frankly there were many things Morales needed, like a hobby, or a better outlook on life, but there was no use in telling him that. 

“I hope this doesn’t take long.” João spoke up along the way. “I’ve got things to do, places to be.”

“So have I.” Morales replied, producing Arthur’s bag of coins from his inner pocket. “So have I.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading as always! Apologies for the lateness of this one, I've been busy with IRL business, and managed to land a job I really wanted abroad.
> 
> Now that it's settled there should be faster updates, but watch this space. xD;


	25. Andesine

 Morales poured a drink -glass half full, no less- and sipped it in quiet victory. He stood before the window, watched the port teem with life, then turned his attention to the head of the table, where João sat in his chair. Every now and then his head rolled back, perfectly timed with the gentle waves, whilst ropes pinned his arms by his side, and held him upright in his seat.

“How’re you feeling?”

João couldn’t begin to say. This new potion was far more potent, and left him swaying in a drunken daze. Whenever he spoke he tripped over his tongue, whilst a strange heat prickled over his skin. Every breath felt laboured, tight, and only worsened by the ropes about his body.

“... Y’ tricked me.” He eventually managed. “Y’ said we’d-”

“I gave you an antidote for your condition, as promised.” Morales stated firmly. “I said we needed to talk in the cabin, which we have.”

“S’not what I meant-”

Morales cracked a thin lipped smile, and set a hand on the back of João’s chair. A large part of him considered tipping it, or hurling him out the window, but instead he craned round to meet João’s stare, and laughed as he struggled to focus.

“You astound me, truly.” He remarked. “After all you’ve been through so far… I thought you might be smarter than this. I thought you’d guess the wine had been tampered with, and refuse my offer to drink.”

“I trusted you.”

“As did your brother.” Morales murmured, stepping back to examine him in full. He followed the dark curls of hair first, falling freely past his shoulders, then looked to the skin, and his narrowed eyes. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t a perfect likeness of his wretched brother, but enough to do the job. Enough to fill Morales with a smug sense of hope, and worry João whenever he broke into a smirk.

“Make no mistake.” Morales announced out of nowhere. “I have done nothing but honour our deal. I spoke briefly of your brother, before you drank that wine, and I cannot be responsible for what you’ve forgotten.”

“Bastard-”

“Now it is you who has yet to comply.” Morales continued firmly. “Granted you haven’t attempted to escape, or harm my crew, but you are here to atone. You remember that much, I hope?”

João mumbled a second attempt of a curse, and let his head fall back with a groan. He’d heard more than enough about promises for this century, let alone one afternoon. What’s more he had no idea what to do, or what Morales expected of him then. It wasn’t as if he could work with the crew up on deck, when even talking was a task in itself.

“... What d’you want?”

“To finish a job.” Morales stated simply. “I had plans for your brother elsewhere, before he was taken by that heretic conman, and now I am at a loss.”

“You think… I know where he is?” João scoffed. “M’ not telling you.”

“I don’t care if he’s been drowned in mud.” Morales laughed. “Not when I have such a close resemblance in my grasp.”

João’s eyes grew wide in realisation, and his breath hitched up in his throat. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a statement, but the context was definitely more sinister. “... S’not close enough.” He argued weakly. “People can tell us apart-”

“Really?” Morales failed to believe him. “You’re implying that someone would recognise _you_ , over your brother?”

“They would-”

“People can barely recall your spit of land, that miserable excuse for an empire!” Morales cackled, relishing João’s hardened stare. The way he grumbled deep in his throat, like a beast preparing to strike.

“I was there first, you shit. I started it all-”

“And it will end with us.” Morales taunted. “It won’t be long before you’re merged with our crown, another territory added to the list. Though it’s a pity, truly. You could’ve been better.”

“You can’t get rid of me.” João hissed through his teeth. “Not that easily.”

“I can, and I will.”

On that note Morales glanced to the door, and nodded for a group of his men to enter. Despite João’s state they kept their weapons close to hand, whilst Morales opened a small chest by the window. He searched through the thin vials inside one by one, then picked out a bottle with a strange blue hue. Already half empty thanks to Antonio and João.

“Open his mouth.” Morales ordered, returning to the table. “And head back, so he can’t spit this out.”

“M’ telling you, this won’t work.” João warned. “I’m known-”

“And you will remain known, as _Imperio Español_.” Morales agreed sincerely. He uncorked the bottle with a loud, wet pop, and snorted at the sight of João still glaring his way. Bruising hands pried his jaw open wide, and yet he challenged Morales to the very end.

If he were anyone else, Morales would have stopped right then. He’d have taken João into his crew, and rewarded that admirable might. Nevertheless, things were what they were. Too many deals had been made in the last few days, and it was time to settle one once and for all.

 

* * *

  
   
 Antonio’s hood stayed up as they passed through the town, whilst his gaze trailed the muddy ground. He watched Arthur’s boots, briskly pacing ahead, and ignored the spectral legs which came into view. Sometimes he saw ghosts of children, far too young to have passed on, and beggars kneeling in the street, unaware that they had died years ago.

Then came the noise, that supernatural buzz. A mash of ignorant living, and bitter dead. Arthur had warned him of it before they left the tavern, but only when he stepped out did he really understand, and pulled his cloak tight over his head.

“It’s the downside to our gift.” Arthur explained, hanging back to check on Antonio. “The dead know we can see them, and believe we can therefore save them.”

“It’s awful.” Antonio whispered. “I’d do so if I could-”

“Nothing is eternal.”

“And what of us?”

Arthur slowed his pace, and lowered his voice to a suitable mutter. “My point remains. We may not die like these folk, but through the centuries we change.”

“I suppose.” Antonio mumbled nervously. When he felt brave he raised his head, to peer across the town, and back in the direction of the port. “But enough of that, about João-”

“João’s _fine._ ” Arthur stressed with a sigh. “I told you before we left, he gets distracted whenever he’s here. Always goes out to meet new people, gets talking- I’m sure he’s in one of the taverns right now, befriending all the locals.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Just trust me.”

Antonio did, until it came to João. For some reason his gut had been churning horribly the past half an hour, and cramped painfully when he walked too fast. His heart in turn felt weighty, distant, cold, whilst a sense of dread hung over his conscience.

“Arturo…?”

“Yes?” Arthur replied. “What is it?”

Antonio drew a deep breath, then pushed on. “If your brothers were ever in pain, or trouble, would you experience that too?”

“Depending on the brother, I’d feel nothing but joy.” Arthur promptly laughed, slapping Antonio on the back. “Now come along, you daft man. João will be home before you know it!”

“But what if this is a sign?” Antonio stressed. “What if something’s happened to him, and my body can sense it?”

“You’re nervous, and overthinking.” Arthur finished with another hefty sigh. Thankfully however he had a remedy for the situation; a battered building on the outskirts of town, made of stone and arched glass windows. A building which had clearly seen better days, but still made Antonio gasp when it came into view.

“This looks like...”

“It’s a church.” Arthur confirmed. “And the place I wanted to show you before.”

 

* * *

 

 “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Antonio mumbled, choosing to lurk in Arthur’s shadow. As much as he wanted to pray, and resume his routine, doing so in England wasn’t ideal.

“It’s the best I can offer.” Arthur replied half heartedly, heaving the doors shut behind them. Along with it came a great wooden beam, which he set in the iron hooks to seal it tight. “That said, we’ll be perfectly safe here, I promise. The hauntings have kept people away for years.”

“But there’s no ghosts.” Antonio stated, looking across the room. In fact the place was perfectly fine. He detected no spirits, no troublesome magic, whilst dust adorned the furnishings. Even the candles were lit before they entered, which struck Antonio as particularly odd.

Speaking of strange, Arthur had likewise changed his tune. Strode the room at a hesitant pace, and flinched when Antonio called his name, then clapped a hand upon his shoulder.

“Is this a trick?”

“Not at all.” Arthur protested. “It’s just- I haven’t… it’s been a while since I visited. It brings up memories.”

“Of what?”

Arthur chewed into the pocket of his cheek. He lifted his nose, breathed through his nostrils deep, and gently removed Antonio’s hand from his shoulder.

“This church was supposed to be for you. When Henry and- oh fuck it, you know already.” Arthur clenched both fists, and jerked his head away. He didn’t want to think about it at all, how it had been, and yet he needed to tell the truth. "I just... you rarely got to leave court back then, so I had an idea. Built this church. I thought I’d bring you to town for a week or two, and give you somewhere to pray whenever you pleased.”

Antonio’s eyes opened wide, a lovely green in the glow of the room. He waited for the joke, for Arthur to laugh as he often did, but instead he looked back with a sullen expression, and shrugged in weak surrender.

“Long story short, my plan failed.” He continued. “Anne came, you left, everything fell apart. The people tried to bring the church to the ground, so I used a bit of magic. Made them believe it was plagued by foul spiri-!”

Antonio flung himself forward without warning. Strong arms brought a winded Arthur into his chest, whilst his face dove into the safety of Arthur's neck. “You really shouldn’t have!”

“I-I wanted to.” Arthur wheezed, catching his breath. “I thought it’d make you happy.”

“It does!” Antonio exclaimed, lifting his head. “But I haven’t- I _didn’t_ do anything like that for you.”

 _You did enough._ Arthur wanted to say, and changed his mind. That was a bit too romantic, especially for him.

“Come along.” He encouraged, taking Antonio to the altar by his hand. “Start praying that I won’t be bitter about your lack of gift.”

“That’s cruel.” Antonio replied, puffing his cheeks. “You’re so- what’s the word...”

“Charming?”

“No.” Antonio snorted, dropping to his knees. “You’re English. It’s hard to tell when you mean to love someone, or stab them.”

“Sometimes we do both.”

“I doubt I’ll ever understand you.” Antonio chuckled, earning one of Arthur’s brief, warm smiles. “Now will you join me?”

“You want me to pray?” Arthur remarked, cocking a brow.

“Whatever else?”

Arthur’s face twisted in genuine pain. He started to bend his knees, then tried to retreat, but then Antonio pulled him the rest of the way down, and told him to end his nonsense.

“I’m hardly a saint myself.” Antonio rightly declared. “If God is unhappy, he is unhappy with us both.”

“But I might burst into flames, and crumble to ash-”

“Then I’ll be sure to sweep you up.” Antonio promised, clapping his palms together. He closed his eyelids, and puffed out his chest, and in an instant, everything stilled. The air of the church became thick like sap, and pushed down on Antonio’s back. It seeped over his shoulders, through the fabric of his cloak, and sent him spiralling into alarm.

 _Its starting again._ Antonio feared, and took in a raspy breath. He thought he was better, that the turns wouldn’t come. His heart pounded, palms turned wet, and his eyes refused to open. The weight on his shoulders continued to worsen, and when he tried to call out Arthur’s name, nothing came.

 

* * *

 

 After a period of numbing, dreadful silence, a bright light hit Antonio hard. He could open his eyes then, much to his relief, but what awaited him stole his breath. The skies were cloudless, the sea a crisp green, and the sun sat high in the sky. A pleasant wind teased Antonio’s hair, whilst ahead stood a limestone structure. A fort that seemed to challenge the body of water before it, and anyone who dared to enter.

“This is…” Antonio breathed, shakily rising to his feet. “I know this.”

 _Ca_ _stelo de São Vicente de Belém_. João’s pride and joy, simply put. Until then Antonio had only seen the plans, beautiful drawings João thrust in his face, but seeing it here, he had to admit it was grand. Perhaps as mighty as João claimed it to be, and perhaps a little better than what his own men could create.

Whatever the case, it wasn’t in England, Antonio realised. And apparently neither was he.

 


	26. Prehnite

 Antonio pinched the skin of his arm, to see if it was real. He dug his fingers in the sand, pulled them back, and raised his head towards the sky. The wind was genuine, much like the waves, and the fort that lay before him.

Nevertheless, it didn’t explain a thing. Not the hows, the whats or the whys. All he recognised were the Lisbon shores, and that he should accept it for whatever it was. So with that in mind he brushed the sand from his breeches, and charged to the tower doors.

 

* * *

  
 From the moment Antonio entered, his body became lighter, at ease. He found no soldiers, the expected confrontation, just stretches of beautiful limestone, leading to a flight of spiral stairs. As he climbed upwards he heard the waves, lapping close to the fortress walls, whilst the tower itself swelled with a comfortable heat. A warmth that reminded him of distant summers days, when he and João were younger, closer, free.

 _Now’s not the time for that_. He quickly scolded himself, picking up the pace. He shot through the first floor, searched high and low, same with the second, and then the third. He trailed every ledge, peered through the arches and doors, and only when he reached the roof terrace did he find hope. Or rather João, hiding in the shadow of a parapet, with a smoking pipe tucked between his lips.

“Brother…?” Antonio uttered, coming closer. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

João looked up slowly, considering him in full. He let Antonio approach, which was better than nothing, but when he knelt down João suddenly straightened, and expelled a great plume of smoke.

“Fancy seeing you here, little Toni.”

“Same to you. ” Antonio laughed, forgetting the strangeness of the situation. “Only a moment ago I was with Arturo in the church and-”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Antonio’s tongue fell flat, and took the light mood with it. The wind adopted a chill, clouds formed overhead, whilst João retreated into his thick, woollen cloak, and inhaled deep on the pipe once more.

“You’ve taken the sun.” He grumbled beneath his breath. “Ruined a perfectly good smoke, a wonderful view-”

“Why’re we here?” Antonio interrupted. “Is this your doing?”

“I should ask you the same.” João replied, unimpressed. “This is my dream, after all. Not yours.”

 

* * *

  
  
 Down at the base of the fort, the waves rolled into soft, white foam. The once grey clouds swirled into silky wisps, whilst both brothers found themselves in a stand-off. A state of _what ifs_ , numerous possibilities, until Antonio eventually gave in.

“This is your dream?” He asked, furrowing his brows. “Here, in Lisbon?”

“Where else would I be?” João replied, bringing the pipe to his lips. Despite his air of confidence, and half hearted remark, Antonio thought it entirely odd. When João caught his eye it quickly shot elsewhere, namely to the door where Antonio had surfaced.

“Are you alone?”

“From what I can tell.” Antonio replied, shrugging. “Question is, where are you?”

“I’m right here.”

“But this is a dream, which means you’re asleep.” Antonio pressed cautiously. “Where are you really, beyond this world-”

“Can’t say.” João answered too fast. “There’s no point.”

“You went off alone.” Antonio stated. “You could be anywhere.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“But _where_ are you?”

João couldn’t tell him, even if he wanted to. Morales’ potion had put him to sleep, and he’d been in this world ever since. Left alone atop his fort, wondering why he’d been so stupid. He couldn’t remember anything they’d discussed about Antonio, to the point he wondered if they’d spoken at all.

“João…?” Antonio said sweetly, and covered João’s hand with his own. “If something’s happened, you need to tell me. I can help.”

“Of course you can.” João laughed dryly. Antonio could achieve anything he desired. He was the sun child, whilst João was the shade. A nearly-there replica, but nothing more.

João could conquer the world first, and they’d say it was Spain. He could become the strongest, cure every disease, and the results would be the same. People always compared his looks to Antonio’s, rather than the other way around, and now it had come to punish him. Morales had caught wind of that fact, and abused it, all for his personal gain.

“Speak to me, please. Tell me what’s going on-” Antonio urged, cut off by a wave smashing into the fort. Without warning a storm tore up the sea, whilst the strong winds hit their peak. He could barely make out the shape of João’s face, lost in the blur of his hair and cloak, but he caught of glimpse of his saddened smile, which curved into a small, round ‘o’.

“Never you mind, little Toni. Go home.”

 

* * *

 

 Needless to say, Arthur was far from impressed. No spell could awaken Antonio, and even when he resorted to yelling, nothing did the trick. He experienced panic, frustration, angry tears, so by the time Antonio opened his eyes, he was a mess. A grumbling, puffy eyed disaster, who tried to distract from his appearance with a rant.

“I thought I’d lost you.” Arthur complained, huffing at the man sprawled across the church floor. “There I was, attempting to pray like you asked, and then down you go- collapsed in a cold, limp heap! It was awful!”

“You were scared?” Antonio asked, sitting up.

“It’s hardly something you see everyday.” Arthur rightly argued, folding his arms over his chest. “A beginner, an absolute _novice_ of a mage, slipping into someone’s dream.”

Antonio quickly paled at those words, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Is that what it was...?”

“Don’t play daft, love.” Arthur sighed softly. “I know the magic when I see it.”

“But I didn’t _try_ to use it-”

“Which is precisely why I’m worried.” Arthur replied. With that said he let his features relax, and slowly unfolded his arms. “Such a feat can be incredibly dangerous… You’re interfering with a person’s mind.”

“I just-” Antonio started, then lowered his voice. “I wanted to find him.”

"So João was the cause.” Arthur surmised, rising to his feet. “I suppose he’s fallen asleep in an alleyway, knowing his luck.”

“But what if he’s-”

“Do you care for your brother? Truly?” Arthur interrupted.

“Of course I do!”

“Then for love of God, tell him to his face.” Arthur pleaded. “Don’t come to him in dreams, or try to voice it through me. Understand?”

 

* * *

  
 Over at the bustling port, João experienced a wake up similar to his brother. The same grogginess, and confusion for starters, but instead of Arthur he got Morales, who had gagged him with a rag in his sleep. His body remained bound, and useless, but he had regained the movement from his neck upwards. Enough to feel human, if he could say such a thing.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up so soon.” Morales growled, pacing alongside the table. “But I suppose that’s what I get for trusting the local merchants. Not a single honest man amongst them.”

 _Hypocrite._ João snorted, unable to do much else. He let his eyes drift across the cabin then, but found nothing of interest, until a young sailor came bursting through.

“Captain-”

“Haven’t you heard of knocking?!” Morales snapped, and of all things turned to João. As if he were a shameful secret of sorts. “I’m busy, is this important?”

The sailor considered his actions carefully, and nodded. His hand found the doorframe, gripped it tight, and when he looked to João it was out of fear, and blatant pity. “He’s here. And he’s not happy.”

“Oh.” Morales perked up then.  “In which case bring him-”

“I’ll let myself in.” A deep rumble announced from over the sailor’s shoulder, catching him off guard. He even ran from the room -poor soul- as if the Devil itself had boarded the ship.

Only it wasn’t the Devil, and never would be, João grimaced. There were few people who could scare that easily, and spoke Spanish through necessity and loathing. Very few men could stand as tall as him, even with blond hair falling freely across his face, and fewer men could draw the room to thick, cold silence.

“Netherlands.” Morales addressed him curtly, cutting the tension. “I trust you’ve been well-”

“I’m here for business.”

 _Shit._ João grunted behind the gag, and briskly hung his head. Beneath the ropes his stomach coiled with nerves, whilst his palms grew clammy and warm. Abel was grumpy -it suited him well- but something in his voice always set João right. It was the kind of tone which stood out in the crowd, and aroused João more than he cared to admit.

“Very well.” Morales conceded, smirking at João. He mistook his hiding for fear, and laughed, gesturing to his captive with his head. “I suppose you already know the details. But you’re to correct this one, understand?”

Abel’s face barely twitched in response. He scanned Morales up and down, followed by the slumped figure in the chair. His patience for the Spanish was paper thin, and he didn’t fancy carrying a dead weight to his ship. “He awake?”

“You want him to walk?” Morales remarked.

“We need to discuss the payment downstairs.” Abel changed the subject, stomping towards the chair. “Some of the goods have spoiled, and the gold is loose.”

“But of course, we’ve been troubled by the storm-”

Abel outright ignored him, and set a gloved hand beneath Antonio’s chin. He wasn’t the kindest man, or the fairest to those who annoyed him, so when he jerked Antonio’s head back Abel felt a small twinge of pride, followed by the taste of something he also disliked.

Surprise.

From the eye colour, to the small mole beneath, everything was wrong. The flustered, endearing scowl was certainly out of place, and for a moment Abel almost forgot himself. He very nearly yelled at Morales for his behaviour, but instead removed the gag from João’s mouth, and rubbed at the spot where his jaw might ache. A subtle, but meaningful apology.

“Is this how you treat your own?” Abel asked aloud, watching João soften into his palm.

“He’s dangerous.” Morales countered.

“But he’s not like others.” Abel reasoned. “He’s an empire, albeit one which I regret to be involved with-”

“Then you won’t mind beating him.”

“Hm.” Abel agreed, then pressed the pad of his thumb to João’s lower lip. “I’m sure he’s done something to deserve it.”

"There’s no need for me to explain.”

João almost did, until a thumb wedged inside his mouth. The firm leather of the glove kept his tongue flat, whilst Abel shot him a hardened stare. A look of _trust me. I’ll sort this out._

“That’s why we gagged him.” Morales explained, sighing as João bit down on the glove. “In fact you’d best put it back on, and keep it there.”

"Perhaps.” Abel answered, giving nothing away.  “But returning to the point of payment. I’ll need more.”

“More?!”

Abel answered with a short nod this time, and slipped his thumb further inside João’s mouth. “This one is different. He’ll take time.”

“But-”

“Look at him.” Abel grumbled, managing to hold the act with ease. With a distant air he probed inside João’s mouth, enjoying the way his breaths changed to short, wet pants. “He’s disturbed.”

“Just get rid of him.” Morales snapped. He didn’t need telling that, not from another of _their_ kind, and he certainly didn’t need two of them aboard his ship. “I’ll have the gold gathered up downstairs, and then we can negotiate payment.”

That answer pleased Abel to no end. Without warning he whipped his thumb from João’s mouth, and rather than wipe the remaining spit from his chin, Abel simply left it be. He left the ropes too, save for those that had held him to the chair, and tossed João over his shoulder like a sack of goods.

“I’ll send one of my men to you.” Morales proposed, watching him march back to the door. “And next week I can see your progress-”

“You’ll see him when I’m done.” Abel growled, and that was that. He was gone from the cabin, barely acknowledged the crew, and strode towards his ship as if it were entirely normal. As if he didn’t have a tied man hanging from his shoulder, whose inner thigh he occasionally squeezed, just to relish each yelp of surprise.

When João weakly kicked he pinned his legs down, and when he became quiet Abel pressed two fingers hard where his arsehole would be, drawing out a noise far too lewd for anyone’s good.

“You bastard!” João hissed. “We’re in public!”

Abel said nothing, as usual. He stared straight ahead, wholly determined, and kept his fingers right where they were. Sometimes he nudged them up further, just to annoy João more, and only when his ship came into view did he speak, rumbling in that gravelly tone.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?” João half scowled, half sulked as they went along. “If you were expecting my brother, I’m not sorry-”

“This is better. Much better.” Abel assured him. “But there’s a problem.”

“You’re telling me.” João complained, groaning when Abel’s hand nestled snug around his groin. That way he could do whatever he pleased, tease as much as he liked, and no spectator would look their way. “W-What’s made you so miserable now?”

“You stole my favourite pipe.”

A laugh lodged itself in João’s throat. His dry throat, he suddenly noticed. “Is that all…?”

“There’s more.” Abel answered, heading aboard his ship. “But we need to continue this alone.”     

 


End file.
